


Blow Out All the Candles

by Nadzieja



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Awkward First Times, Aziraphale is a mysterious stranger, Crowley's Love Language is Acts of Service (Good Omens), Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Gaslighting, Happy Ending, Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Crowley's past relationship, More tags to be added, One instance of non-graphic physical assault, Possessive Lucifer, Rimming, Self-Conscious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sex Worker Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Inexperience, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), This is about the lowest classes in the society, Victorian, lack of bodily autonomy, mentions of past cheating, mentions of toxic relationship, now with art, they're switches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja
Summary: Crowley leans over the timber balustrade of a dingy building that was once an upscale theatre. He breathes the stuffy air that smells of smoke and sweat, and taps his heels on the sticky floor.But he can't really complain - London sure has some horrid spots to offer, and the ringer house at Cleveland Street hardly is the worst of them.*Crowley is a rent-boy working in a gay brothel in one of the poorest districts of London. One night a rather mysterious and very handsome client appears, coincidentally just after another gay brothel is exposed after a raid.Who is this angel-like looking man? What is his connection to the whole situation? And more importantly–will Crowley be able to keep his emotions at bay?Time is ticking, since more and more gay brothels across the city are being raided by the newly appointed chief of police…
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 290
Kudos: 194
Collections: GO-Events Good Omens Mystery AU Event Works, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Gilded Cage

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my submission for the Mystery AU event organised by [ GO-Events:) ](https://go-events.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you [ brinjal ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinjal/pseuds/brinjal) for all your hard beta work and your cheerleading that made it possible for me to continue this story ❤️

Crowley leans over the timber balustrade of a dingy building that was once an upscale theatre. He breathes the stuffy air that smells of smoke and sweat, and taps his heels on the sticky floor.

But he can't really complain - London sure has some horrid spots to offer, and the ringer house at Cleveland Street [1] hardly is the worst of them.

He scans the floor below, but despite the noise from the streets it's a slow night. There are only a couple of men hanging about, tentatively browsing sporting guides [2] back and front. Crowley doesn't envy the girls that will end up being chosen.

Hastur sits opposite them, tapping his foot impatiently, while waiting for them to decide. He looks like a frog waiting to capture his meal.

The guides detail age, physical description and even personality type of each girl, along with a breakdown cost.

But Crowley isn't in it and not only because male prostitution isn't legal. He is free to choose his own clients as he pleases - a privilege he worked hard for. Most workers are not so lucky.

"Anything interesting?" 

A dark clad figure with a small frame materialises next to him out of thin air and Crowley startles. "Why do you always have to do that?"

Bee is the closest thing to what Crowley would call a friend in this awful world they’ve found themselves in. That didn't change even after they got 'promoted' to run their little brothel alongside the frog-faced Hastur.

They shrug and look down to the floor below. "Maybe you should be paying more attention."

Crowley grumbles and follows their gaze, leaning back on the kitchy gallery that creaks under his weight.

"Tonight is the night, I can feel it. Tonight I'll meet my prince charming and leave this place." He grins, and runs a hand through his outrageously long locks that brush against his jawline. 

He doesn’t really believe in his own words and isn't sure if he ever did. He's already met his prince, the one who was supposed to turn his life around. It's the same person who put him in this gilded cage to begin with. 

"So just like any other night," Bee muses.

"Shut up. Look, I'm wearing my best outfit tonight, alright" Indeed, he was - a blood red shirt accented with a black cravat that left his collarbone visible for all interested. He didn't bother with a jacket; it left his sharp hips on display. 

Bee gives him a once over and lets out a low whistle. Crowley wants to respond, but before he can form his words, the noise from the streets grows louder and the main doors get thrown open by a cheerful bunch of drunk newcomers. There are groups of sailors and soldiers, likely looking for a night to remember, factory workers, looking to forget and a few well-dressed gentlemen, which is what Crowley has been waiting for. 

"Lucky you. Looks like after that molly house [3] at the Field Lane closed, people are still on the lookout for the next best place."

Crowley shivers, he doesn't consider himself lucky and doesn't want to think about that molly house. Many of his friends ended up in prison after the raid, some were sentenced to stand in the pillory, left to other people's mercy. The luckier ones managed to flee across the border. The new chief constable [4] turned out to be a relentless ‘morality protector’ and a member of the _Society for the Suppression of Vice [_ 5], eager to prove himself in the only way he knew how.

Crowley has to firmly remind himself that this place is different, that he can relax, that here he doesn't have to worry about his safety.

He scans the floor below. He's half-considering a grim-looking but well-dressed gentleman when someone else catches his attention: a middle-aged man in a beige coat and curly blond hair who looks completely out of place. 

He feels something short-circuit in his brain. It seems too good of a catch to be true. Bee is talking to him again, but he doesn't listen. As if hypnotised he turns around on his heel and heads for the staircase.

Like a cat he nimbly maneuvers around the newcomers, not losing his sight of the man for even a split second, while discretely noting the interest of those around for future reference.

Finally, he slithers behind the man, who looks even more adorable up close - his softness, the impeccable posture, his perfectly maintained coat - all that brings images of a soft cosy home to Crowley's mind.

And yet he practically radiates nervous energy, fiddling with his ring as he takes the place in. "Seeing something you like?" Crowley asks as Ligur drapes himself over another man just a few feet forward.

"Um, yes, well, I'm not sure," the man answers without looking back. "I don't know if it's the right place." Once he finally turns, looking at him with the warmest shade of blue, his eyes flutter, raking Crowley up and down, then he flushes and tears his eyes away. "Oh, _dear Lord."_

Crowley smirks. He’s not as young as he used to be, but he can still impress, and that look was definitely worth squeezing himself into those skin-tight trousers today. The amount of admiration makes his stomach tie into a knot over the excitement that's waking up something dormant in the left side of his chest.

"Perhaps I could be of service?" Crowley asks, offering a single glass of wine and making sure their fingers brush during the exchange. He can already see the almost imperceptible twitch of the man's Adam's apple, the eyes glazed with desire mixed with confusion over whether Crowley is implying what he thinks he is implying.

The man takes a sip. "You're not drinking, sir…?" 

"Ah, I was rather hoping to have a taste straight from your lips." Crowley responds and the man nearly spits out his drink. "If you're amenable, that is."

The man stares at him in the best possible mixture of shock and hope. This time Crowley reaches out with his hand to slowly wind it down the blond man's arm, the fabric of his wooly coat soft against the pads of Crowley’s fingers. The intimacy starts in the smallest touches and Crowley understands that, crafts it artfully into a temptation that cannot possibly be denied, brushing his fingertips lightly over the man's naked hand.

The blond man's lips part and he nods, ever so slightly, but it's a yes, and a moment later their hand lace together out of sight of those around and Crowley is leading him upstairs to his room that's only ever his (another clever privilege that he’s gained).

Once the doors close behind them they're finally alone in the dim, candle-lit room, where a single bed beckons them from its corner. 

The awful sounds of other people's passions oppress them from both sides and Crowley curses the thin walls. How the hell is he supposed to work like this?

Before the mood is gone completely, Crowley brackets the gorgeous man between his arms, trapping him in the space bound by himself and the doorway. Their faces are mere inches apart, but their bodies do not touch. Yet.

Most of the clients tell him what they want upfront, they know why they're here and they're not afraid to voice it. But this time something feels different, an instinct tells him that this man wants to be _seduced_. 

They all want to feel loved of course, all who come here are looking for something they can't have in their lives. That's the transaction here: Crowley provides the illusion and they provide him with means to survive another day.

The man makes it incredibly easy to pretend.

"Where would you like me to kiss you?" Crowley whispers, ghosting his lips over the man's mouth and his neck, waiting. He smells of cinnamon and leather bound books. 

"Yes," the answer is quiet and desperate at the same time.

Only then does Crowley press the man onto the doorway, unwrap his neck from the necktie and place passionate kisses there, reveling in the noises he elicits from his lungs.

_This is going to be nice,_ Crowley thinks.

He slides his fingers over the velvet waistcoat (there’s not two ways about it, the man has to be rich) on his way up to the man's chin and lightly brushes a thumb over the soft lips that part for him instantly. His other hand sinks into the man's hip, pulling him closer.

"Would you like me to- " Crowley places his leg between the man's thighs and feels the unmistakable length of his arousal there. The man mewls and digs his nails into Crowley's shirt, tugging him ever closer.

"What would you like, angel? I'll do anything, anything you want. If you book me for the whole hour, it'll only be four pounds." He feels the man's body tensing, his face falls a little too.

"Oh, I- ah, I thought- " The man checks his pockets frantically and it makes Crowley second guess himself. "I only have three."

Was he wrong all along? The man looks well-off and is rather too well-dressed for this part of town - manicured fingers, the smell of old books… Crowley does not make mistakes like that.

Three pounds is just over half an hour, but Crowley's fingers are already resting on the man's thighs and he feels… well, _aroused_ and that doesn't happen often.

"First time here?" Crowley says finally, devising a plan as he goes.

"First time… yes," the man says in a way that sounds all too vulnerable. There is something in Crowley that just wants to make it good for the man who is too shy to voice his needs, give him something nice to remember.

"Well then, it's your lucky day. I’ve a discount for new customers." He winds himself tighter around the man, pulling his shirt out with one hand and sinking in the soft flesh beneath, palming him through the beige breeches with the other. It earns him short, encouraging gasps.

"Yes, that would be - that would be perfect," he huffs, seemingly with great difficulty.

Crowley is down on his knees in an instant, carefully undoing the buttons to his client's trousers and lavisciously devouring their content (Crowley is well-trained). He swirls his tongue around, earning a startled cry. Quickly enough, the man's hands sink into Crowley's hair, tugging at it weakly and Crowley can't help but to moan himself, losing himself in the moment, digging his nails into the man's perfectly soft thighs.

In a surge of inspiration he lifts the man up and carries him onto the bed and Crowley feels a pinch of regret that they aren't nearly as clean as they should be for the angel in his arms. It feels wrong for the man to be here in this filthy, cramped room that smells of sweat and sex, but there's nothing Crowley can do about it other than make them both forget the surroundings. And at that he's very good. 

He guides the man carefully onto his stomach. "Tell me if you want me to stop and I will," he whispers to his ear and slides his hand over his buttocks. His heart rate surges at the thought of what he is about to do. 

It's not something Crowley offers often, even to the best of his clients, but this man just woke up something buried very deep within him, locked at the bottom of his heart, a vulnerability that needs protection. 

There's the smell of leather and cinnamon again. 

_He’s far too clean - the man has got to be rich._

He licks experimentally once in the man's crevice, and his moans turn into short, sharp gasps. Crowley can feel the sheets being pulled on both of his sides and the man's shifting body, rutting into the mattress.

He positions both of his hands on the man's hips and licks again, this time with more power and intent. The soft body moving under him is making him achingly hard and that's _definitely_ not something that happens easily, and certainly not when it's not required.

It doesn't last long. As soon as he dares to press the tip on his tongue inside, the man tenses, his hips speed on the mattress, there is another muffled cry and then the man lays still, gasping for air wildly.

"Oh good _Lord_ ," he exhales.

Crowley climbs up to lie next to the gorgeous mess on the bed and strokes his shoulder tenderly. He definitely _doesn't_ do that for any of his clients, ever, but the man doesn't need to know that.

"Okay, angel?"

"Ah, I'm - sorry, I'm -"

"Whatever for?" Crowley smiles. "Did you enjoy it?" 

The man blushes bright red, his flush spreading down to his neck and disappearing below his shirt's collar. He nods.

"Then that's all that matters." Crowley leans in further to the man's ears and whispers, "you were really hot."

There is a shy smile and he looks away, then his gaze travels lower to Crowley's own pants, to its all too obvious content. "But you didn't… should I…?"

Crowley's brain most definitely shuts down at that, because no one _ever_ in his career, not even the nicest of his clients, had thought about him or his needs. He feels suddenly hot, so he turns away to hide the splash blooming his cheeks, pretending the blank wall has suddenly become very interesting.

"No, not really. Unless it's your ah, fantasy of course, you're paying after all." He glances at the clock, strategically positioned away from his clients' views. There are ten minutes left. "Not enough time for that anyway," he lies.

The man nods and peels himself off the sheets. He pulls up his pants and pantaloons quickly enough, picking up his coat and necktie from the floor as he goes. 

And if Crowley stares to catch a glimpse of that softly lined stomach, well, it's one of the perks of his job. 

He wonders if the man is left with a deep rooted shame for what they've done. Most people that dare to come here are over that, but he seems the sort that might regret it, despite the pleasure, the fulfillment and the thrill of it all.

Quite a few people came here looking to try out something new and exciting and usually they are never seen here again. Crowley is almost sure he will never see the man again. 

The man places his promised tree pounds on the table by the bed and walks towards the door. Before he leaves, he turns to Crowley one last time. 

"Thank you, er-"

"Crowley, you can call me Crowley." He supplies, his heart beating faster despite himself. Is the man asking because he wants to come again? Or simply because he is trying to be polite?

The man smiles in a way that Crowley, for all his years of reading people, cannot figure out. It’s something between wistful and melancholic. 

"Thank you Crowley." 

He says and disappears, leaving Crowley in the eerie silence and the tick tock of his clock, measuring every second of his loneliness.

He groans but the night's still young, it's time to earn his pay (four pounds would be a lot if the brothel didn't take half of it and if another share weren’t to go back to his siblings in Ireland). Though the ache between his legs makes him wonder how he will ever be able to concentrate on anything beside those lovely blond curls and warm blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] In reality, the brothel at 19 Cleveland Street (fun fact: only 20min walk from Mayfair) was an entirely homosexual male brothel, whose workers also worked as telegraph messenger boys for the Post Office. A scandal broke out in 1889 when its true nature was discovered by the police. It was unveiled that many aristocrats, allegedly including the Prince of Wales (second in line to the British throne), were its regular clients. Several people were brought to court, but were given light sentences and no clients were prosecuted.
> 
> [2] Sporting guides really existed and were used as modern catalogues in brothels at the time, listing features of available girls to any potential clients. 
> 
> [3] Molly house at Field Lane was one of the most popular public houses (akin to a coffee shop) in London, where homosexuals could meet in relative safety. It was raided by the police in 1726 and its occupants arrested. As a result, three men were executed and four were imprisoned and fined. A few managed to escape prosecution.
> 
> [4] Organised police force that was not tied to the military was a relatively new invention at that time. It was made up from regular citizens, often taken up as a side job that was paid poorly.
> 
> [5] The Society for the Suppression of Vice was a 19th-century English society dedicated to promoting public morality. A predominantly religious organization that vowed to put stop to everything from sodomy to sex work to breaking Sabbath. It was established in 1802 as a successor of the Society to the Reformation of Manners, and continued to function until 1885.
> 
> *
> 
> I am planning for this story to span some 12 chapters. I currently have an outline and 7 chapters written (at varying stage of completion). I will initially be posting one chapter per week, but it's likely I will switch into one chapter every two weeks once I run out of content. This is however the main story I will be focusing on from now on, so rest assured - it will be completed:)


	2. The Outcasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: 69 (sex position)

"He _is_ special, I'm telling you! I've never met anyone like him before." 

It's been a while since that unusual evening Crowley met the angel with pale curly hair, but he can't stop thinking about him—his fingertips are still pulsing with the phantom of soft thighs, the pervasive smell of cinnamon and leather-bound books follows him wherever he goes, the man's hands in his hair, tugging and scratching at his scalp. Even that vague desire to bury his face into the man's stomach just wouldn’t go away. 

And to think Crowley doesn't even know his name.

"And you never will, if he's anything like you've described to me." Bee states flatly. They always do, whether he wants to hear it or not. And right now, he'd rather not.

They're both lounging on the sill of his fourth floor window that looks out over the empty streets. It's early morning and there's barely anyone awake in the brothel.

The younger boys are busy carrying letters around the city for the post office and most of the girls are asleep. It's quiet up in his little haven and Crowley enjoys this calm before the storm, the only time that's almost always only his. 

Almost. 

Bee is meticulously inspecting every last inch of the space that stretches before them, making him look down to this dirty wretched place, the muddy narrow streets and thick heavy air that is his reality.

He knows—here they are left to live in relative peace, but also relative poverty and certain exploitation. Most mollies [6] live their lives largely within the _heterosexual_ community, but the areas where they seek their pleasures (or even to simply socialise) are just outside this window—the endless knots of molly houses and nearby cruising grounds. 

The false promise of peace that's _just_ outside of their reach. The only place where them—the outcasts—are tolerated, brushing shoulders with common criminals and thieves.

Crowley groans, but he knows Bee is right—he shouldn't get attached, no matter what. They've both been in this business long enough, and Bee knows what they're talking about. 

"You're right, I know you're right," Crowley says. "I'm just wondering."

"Why a posh bloke like him didn't have more money? Because this is what I really want to know." They snicker and Crowley groans again.

"You'd get it if you saw him—there was really something mysterious and unreal about him, a man built of contradictions."

"Aren't we all," Bee adds thoughtfully. "If he really was that odd, he could be one of those informers, you know, blokes that are sent in only to investigate the place from the inside, to stage a provocation. Be careful."

Crowley throws his hands up in desperation. "Bee, he came in and had sex with a man," he says staring at them in disbelief. "No policeman arrived, not even a good old fashioned raid. I don't think this is how informers work."

Bee is chewing their nails, refusing to meet his gaze. "Maybe not, but I've lived long enough to know there is no such thing as coincidence." They bury their head in their hands. "Why do you always have to do this to me?"

"I haven't picked him," Crowley says slowly, weighing his words, "he came on his own. Calm down, nothing bad happened."

" _Yet._ Ugh, alright. Find what you can about him, I’ll see what I can dig out on my end." They stand up abruptly and turn towards the door, looking more determined than Crowley has seen them in ages.

He's chewing his lips thinking what more he can say, but the truth is, Bee had already planted a seed of doubt in his heart. "You worry too much."

"Someone has to," they respond—they always have to have the last word. Crowley snorts at how childish it is. Or is that all there is to it? 

_Someone has to._

Well, he doesn't exactly have the best self-preservation record, starting with hanging around Lou and ending with his illegal work in the brothel. He is reckless, impulsive and what's worse, he’s an undaunted optimist.

Bee stops briefly at the doors. "I'm going to see the Devil, need anything?" The Devil—because that's how they referred to Louis—was the sole owner of the ringer house. _Their_ owner and protector.

Unfortunately, while prostitution itself has been legal for several years now [7], homosexuality has not, which left him in the clutches of the man that took him out of poverty and provided with protection and a new life. You don't bite the hand that feeds you. And it's not like he has anywhere else to go. 

Most of the people in the ringer house don't even know who the real keeper of the brothel is or how the police seem to mysteriously avoid their public house altogether (Crowley imagines that large sums of money are involved). 

_Most_ don’t, indeed, but with all due modesty Crowley is the man's favourite. They had known each other for a very long time before they even arrived in London, which is when Lou's career exploded. He befriended aristocrats, members of parliament, thieves and criminals alike. The magistrate was practically eating from his hand. Whatever Crowley had to offer was suddenly irrelevant in all that noise and it became painfully obvious that he was only ever a tool for Louis, a means to an end. A toy, to be thrown out later. 

"Nah, I'm good. Tell him I send regards or... whatever."

Bee nodded and just like that, they were gone, leaving Crowley alone in his musings.

* * *

On a typical day Crowley works until around midnight. This is when the more inebriated sort of clientele arrive, who can be appeased by older or less facially gifted counterparts (like Hastur). 

For some reason, Bee’s words stuck in his head more than he would have wanted. The blond stranger _was_ rather skittish and he did appear only after that molly house got shut… but facts don't lie. There have been no raids at all recently, not only on his brothel, but nowhere else in the district either.

Before he turns to sleep, he gives the floor below one more sweep, and what he sees makes him freeze in his steps. There, a mere dozen feet forward, stands the mysterious man. It's just a glimpse, but Crowley would recognise that beige coat and mussed hair anywhere.

Crowley's running down the staircase and pushing through the crowd without a second thought, and he should have really thought it through beforehand. What if the man doesn't want to see him ever again? Too late, he stops awkwardly in front of the angel, who was just talking to Ligur—a dark skinned beauty with short, dark hair, and a good friend of Hastur's.

"Anything I can help with?" Crowley puts all his charm into the question, trying not to look put out by the situation. Ligur only rolls his eyes, but the blond man, _oh,_ he beams at Crowley like the sun on a warm summer day.

"Oh! Oh, good! I was just asking this gentleman if he knew where I could find you." The angel beauty says.

Crowley feels a certain warmth expanding in his chest and warming all of his being. 

_He did come to see me._

"And here you have found me. Shall we?" Crowley casually offers the man his shoulder and he takes it—well-manicured, soft hands looping through Crowley's arm. His stomach flutters at the touch alone, though he's doing his best to not let it show.

"I hope Ligur didn't cause you any trouble, he can be rather... abrasive." Crowley says once they're alone in his candle-lit room. Shadows are dancing on the walls, and the soft backdrop highlights the angel's soft features even more.

"Oh no! He was—well he wasn't _exactly_ helpful."

Crowley snorts, "that's putting it mildly," he says arranging himself on the bed, which he hopes looks as seductive as he imagines it. "What took you so long, angel?"

"Ah, well." The man turns somewhat red and Crowley's doubts resurface. What if he was just trying to get away from Ligur? Why would Crowley even care? 

But then the man answers with a, "I, ah, duties, I suppose," and that faint ember of hope that smoulder under his ribs is spared. 

Crowley nods empathetically, "what can I do for you today?"

"I was hoping—" his angel takes a few steps forward. It's clear he's been thinking about this a great deal. Crowley takes it as a good sign as, if a client comes twice, chances are he'll become a regular. "...We could fix what happened last time and... tend to you?"

The man's gaze flicks up at Crowley and then away again and back once more. He looks hopeful, almost pleading, as if Crowley was able to fulfill all his dreams by simply granting him this one request. Crowley feels entirely too hot at this thought, his cock twitches in his too tight trousers.

"You'd like that?" Crowley says after a long pause, trying to push through that tightness in his throat to sound collected. He's not sure if he succeeded.

"Yes." The man admits quietly, fiddling with a ring on his little finger. 

"That can be arranged." Crowley says with a barbed smirk, his senses coming back to him and he extends his hands in an invitation.

* * *

They're woven together on the bed, naked from waist down and arranged in a circle. The blond's soft lips are on the hard length of Crowley's erection. He will never get enough of this, and the view is worth dying for. 

Crowley doesn't remain indebted, he licks along a vein in short slow strokes, teasing as best as he knows how, applying every one of his tricks, as if there was no tomorrow.

God, this is enough to fuel his fantasies for months to come. He should be paying this angel for the service, not the other way around, because—he has to admit it—it almost lets him forget what they're _really_ doing here. 

Maybe the man's kink is simply to _please_ others? That wouldn't be entirely uncommon. It's just that none of Crowley's clients had requested it before (because he has a thing for bastards, apparently). 

The man's thighs thrust faster and Crowley speeds up, meeting this new pace. He drags his nails across the pale, gold-dusted thighs that stutter under his touch, and a few gasps later heat floods his mouth. His own pleasure has been coiling at the base of his spine for a while and this sets it off, leaving his mind blank and his bones weightless. The afterglow which never tasted quite as sweet, for reasons Crowley doesn't want to think about.

Instead he collapses onto his back and glances at the clock—they're over the time mark, but right now he couldn't care less. 

"Bloody hell, angel." He gasps. It feels good to be really _wanted._

The man lays his head on Crowley's thighs, hands wandering up and down his furry legs and Crowley catches himself wanting it to last, even though he's practically _adding_ money out of his own pocket now. He shouldn't be enjoying this quite as much as he does, that might end up _really, really bad._

_But there might at least be a nice in-between._

Crowley reaches out to tousle the blond's hair. He shouldn't be doing that either. 

The man smiles mischievously, his eyes flicking there and back and Crowley knows a new request is on its way. Whatever it might be, he wants to fulfill it. _Anything, angel, anything you need._

"Crowley, would you… teach me? The art of lovemaking?"

 _And there it is,_ Crowley thinks, _the reason behind all of this. The man has someone, perhaps a secret lover, perhaps a servant. Maybe someone he wants to seduce, maybe he just wants to improve his skills for them._ Crowley isn't going to ask, that's none of his business.

"You're plenty good at it already, angel."

"I'm being serious."

 _Me too_ , he wants to say looking at the glimmer of sweat beading on the man's forehead, the perfect, soft thighs, the gentle swell of his belly that disappears under his shirt. Whoever the man wants to learn for, his chosen partner doesn't know how lucky he is. He bites his tongue just in time.

"If this is what you want," he chokes out eventually (and only with a tinge of regret). The man doesn't seem to pick up upon it, thankfully, because he only nods.

"I do, truly, but it's just that—is there any chance—the main entrance is awfully on display you see— "

"Back entrance?" Crowley smiles to himself, still staring at the ceiling. _What a bastard._ "Of course there is, for our special guests. Bee will let you in if you knock twice, then three times and ask for me."

"Oh, thank you," he blushes like a child who got caught red-handed while stealing a sweet.

"Angel," Crowley asks absent-mindedly "you never told me your name." Not entirely uncommon, plenty of his clients never tell him their names, not real ones anyway. He might be overstepping here, but the question is out in the open now and he can't take it back. "You don't have to of course, there’s nothing—"

"Aziraphale. It's Aziraphale," the blond man says, still clutching onto Crowley's thigh.

 _Angel's name_ , Crowley thinks and smiles. _Of course he has an angel's name. How could he ever be an informer_? If there is one thing he knows for sure, it is that Aziraphale would never harm him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [6] Molly (from Latin mollis — soft or effeminate) was a commonly used term in Victorian times for men who today might describe themselves as gay, bisexual, trans or non-binary. Sometimes it was used as a slur, sometimes a more generally-used noun.
> 
> [7] Prostitution was legal during a short period of Victorian times in England, namely 1860–1886
> 
> *
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter, next one will be twice as long:)


	3. Leave the Lights On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter contains NSFW art:)

Before Crowley knows it, he starts looking forward to the next time he will see his angel. (That unfortunately means everything in-between feels like even more of a drag than before). But now he knows there  _ will be  _ a next time, Aziraphale has become a new constant in his life. A bright spot in his otherwise dull week.

It's not that Crowley hasn't had nice and polite clients before. He's been with some true gentlemen, even lords and earls that Lou organised had for him, but it all paled with the experience of  _ Aziraphale _ . It was his own fault for crushing so hard, which definitely had not been the plan.

Aziraphale would come through the back door, as Crowley had instructed him to. Knowing the date and time in advance gave Crowley the advantage of being prepared.

Every single time, he gets antsy in anticipation and maybe even as nervous as Aziraphale himself looked, even though he's done it plenty enough times before. 

_ Not like this,  _ his mind supplies unhelpfully. 

Alright, not like this. 

Not when he was crawling out of his skin with the magnitude of his own want. He is vaguely aware there might not be a coming back from this.

He lights the last candle, just as there comes a faint knocking on his door.  _ Knocking,  _ in a  _ whorehouse.  _ He shakes his head with disbelief at the sheer ridiculousness, but somehow it also makes him smile. Aziraphale  _ always  _ knocks on his door, and he always waits to be invited in.

Crowley clicks the doors open and grins like an idiot. Why does this feel like a date? 

"Hi," he says, stupidly.

"Good evening, dear. Good day?"

"It is now," Crowley lets him in and immediately wraps himself around the man. Aziraphale smells more like cloves today and Crowley starts wondering if he is a spice merchant. 

"You smell like cakes," he mutters.

"Oh dear, are you flirting with me?"

"No, I just—" He pulls back, startled. Then he sees the cheeky grin on Aziraphale's face. "Bastard."

"As much as I'd love to discuss this, I was under the impression you were going to teach me something?" He makes  _ that _ face again and Crowley can't believe how much Aziraphale has been teasing him recently—he had a natural talent for it. All he needed was a small nudge of encouragement. 

"Very well, then," he says, sitting on the bed and inviting Aziraphale in. They lay on it facing each other, not touching yet, as if they were just friends and Crowley was going to tell him a bed-time story. And in a way he is.

"What should I tell you today… have I already said how important it is to remember that everyone likes something different? It's a bit of trial and error. You'll just have to see… what your partner enjoys." Crowley lightly traces his fingers over Aziraphale's chest and neck as he speaks. "Read them… like a book. You know?"

Aziraphale swallows, "I like books." He says absent-mindedly and a little bit breathlessly.

"Really? I couldn't tell." Crowley drawls and is immediately smacked with a pillow. "Oi! That's how we're winning arguments now? Spoilt angel." Crowley grabs at Aziraphale's wrists playfully. It's not a strong grip and the man could free himself at any point, but he doesn't. He is infinitely stronger than Crowley and yet he enjoys their little power play. 

It took Crowley a while to pick up on Aziraphale's body cues, on his gasps and moans but, once he had, his angel truly shone. Crowley could spend days basking in his glow. 

"I think you'd feel better if you had fewer clothes on you," Crowley suggests, nibbling at Aziraphale's ear.

"Is that a trade secret? I'm afraid I've been doing it all wrong then,  _ oh _ —" Crowley rolls his thighs, rubbing against the hot, hard length of the man beneath, drawing a quiet moan.

"Quite right you have, but it's all going to change now." Crowley smiles, but his fingers falter. They've met here several times now and not once was Aziraphale completely naked, yet his request from their last meeting was clear enough.

Crowley starts divesting him of all the silly layers, desperately trying not to melt at the thought that he will soon see Aziraphale naked, for the very first time. The silly banter is the only thing that’s keeping him sane. A wooly jacket lands on the floor with a thud.

"What do  _ you _ like?" Aziraphale asks out of the blue and Crowley's cheeks bloom like sweet, pink peonies. He doesn't know how to respond, he doesn't even remember. At some point it’s just become a thing that he does, something he’s gotten used to. But, there is one thought that fights its way to the front of his mind.

_ You!  _ It wants to scream,  _ I like you! _

"I'm, er, sorry. I thought it might help…" Aziraphale backtracks, perplexed at Crowley's blank expression.

"That's... alright, you just took me off guard. I like… various things. I like people. I like how they are all different, how they can react differently to the same touch. I guess, I like seeing them fulfilled."

Now he just wants to slap himself and crawl under the bed. It was an honest answer, but not the sort of thing that clients like to hear. Not in this game of pretending. Each and every one of them wants to hear they're the only important person in Crowley's week, that they're the one. In Aziraphale's case, that was true.

And for some reasons, Aziraphale doesn't chastise him for failing to match the mood. Instead, he cups one of his hands around Crowley's cheek. "Tell me more?"

He swallows, "I like... trying new things, different configurations," he continues, unbuttoning the waistcoat in front of him, "observing their reactions closely." His hands are roaming now on Aziraphale's stomach and chest, outlining the flesh underneath.  _ At last, at last.  _ The man moans, but quickly enough he catches Crowley by the wrist. 

"Best not." He says and Crowley looks at him confused, but withdraws obediently. "It's just—I know you're obliged to pretend to enjoy it, but I don't think I would be able to believe you could."

Crowley feels something in his heart tearing, his façade breaking. "I don't suppose…" he chooses his words carefully, "there is anything I could say that could convince you otherwise?"

Aziraphale looks at him with that mixture of shock and uncertainty Crowley got used to seeing on his face. 

"You might remember it differently, but I chose you, remember?" He tugs an unruly lock behind Aziraphale's ear. It pings out again. "In a crowded room, out of all possibilities, I chose you. And I would choose you again, Because you  _ are  _ attractive, soft and ever so sweet, and you deserve to know that. This is the truth; this is not an illusion."

He’s gone too far, he knows that. Totally unprofessional, in a way he hasn't been with anyone else. Not since Lou.

"Oh dear " Aziraphale blinks several times, perhaps something catching in his eye. "I don't know what to say, I— thank you, Crowley."

Crowley smiles, his eyes dropping to those lips that Aziraphale, perhaps unconsciously, bites when he's aroused. Crowley noticed it a while ago, he wanted to kiss them instantly, but that's not something they've done so far, and probably for the best. 

Instead, he undoes each button of the waistcoat with a slow precision, artfully building the tension between them, placing a kiss on the man's stomach, and then chest, whenever a new patch of flesh is unveiled. 

He kisses it all, out of need for the man below him, who is digging his hands in Crowley's shirt, pulling him ever closer.

"You're perfect, angel." Crowley says, pulling his breeches off next and dragging his nails on the new grounds of exposed flesh. 

"Can I kiss you? Oh please, is that allowed?" Aziraphale huffs between moans and Crowley is instantly there to straddle his thighs.

"Anything angel, anything for you." He leaps into this, parched beyond reason, because he's been waiting since the day they met, since he saw them wetted with red wine and couldn't stop thinking of sinking against them. Whether it's a good idea or not is a moot point now. None of this was ever a good idea. 

Crowley is careful and patient. Has the man kissed before? He doesn't know, doesn't want to make any assumptions. He licks and kisses and moves in only once he's invited in-between those parted lips. 

A moment longer and Crowley might come into his trousers. Thank  _ someone _ he decided to relieve his tension beforehand, he doesn't think he would have lasted any longer otherwise. When was the last time he’d had to resort to such measures?

(Kissing is another thing he doesn't generally get to do, though not because he doesn't want to. Some young men like it on occasion, but more often they're content enough having their cocks sucked.)

He withdraws and replaces his tongue with his fingers, Aziraphale devours it lavisciously and now Crowley very strongly has to concentrate on thinking about the morning newspaper Bee sometimes brings to his room, or it all will be over too soon.

He takes off the remainder of his own clothes, and can't believe they're both here, naked, lying on his bed for the first time. 

Crowley climbs on top of Aziraphale to line them up (he doesn't really need much preparation,. He had the whole night before to practice).

"Is this what you like, my dear?" Aziraphale asks and Crowley stops. After all that talk about paying attention to your partner, it somehow slipped between the cracks to pay attention to  _ this.  _ He just continued with his usual routine, what most men wanted from him — no one else ever asks what he likes _. _

"Do you?" Comes a little delayed response.

"I think I would like to have you inside. If— if that's the sort of thing you… enjoy."

Oh Lord and all things holy and unholy, if he doesn’t turn into a puddle of goo any moment now, it's going to be a miracle.

"I'd love to, but… are you sure?"

"Yes," comes a determined affirmation.

Crowley nods, his hands tremble when he reaches for oil and spills it on his hand. Too much.

"The other way around next time then,” he winks, and is instantly mortified that he’s just suggested it so casually but the man just smiles and nods, dropping into the pillows once Crowley's hand slips between his thighs and below, exploring.

He moves slowly, gently brushing the edge of Aziraphale's entrance, easing the tensed muscles that twitch under his touch, as well as he can. It's been a while since he's done this, but of course he hasn't forgotten. He just wishes he wasn't such a wreck right now. 

Aziraphale is making wonderful noises, fist clenching at the bedsheets beneath him and Crowley is focusing on only one thing now: to make it good for Aziraphale. There's no rush, the clock behind him forgotten. 

He parts Aziraphale gently, coos and kisses his inner thighs, trying to help him relax, and then he hooks his fingers just a little to tease the pleasure that awaits. 

_ It has to be good. _

Crowley reaches under one of Aziraphale's thighs and places it over his shoulder, then gently presses the other to the man's stomach. It should be an easy enough position that will still allow him to read into any discomfort from Aziraphale's face. And his pleasure.

He shudders, but lines them up and presses in, just barely, asking permission, asking if he’s ready, asking if he really wants this from Crowley. Aziraphale grips his hips in turn.

"Are you sure?" Crowley asks again, breathless. He wouldn't be offended if the man changed his mind now.

" _ Crowley _ ," Aziraphale reprimands him between gasps and Crowley doesn't ask again. He makes the breach, holding Aziraphale closely. They're both breathing heavily and he would like to lose all control now, but instead he patiently waits unmoving, letting Aziraphale to get used to the stretch. He leans in to kiss Aziraphale's collarbone, his neck, to whisper soothing nothings into his ear—he can't help it. 

Once their breath evens out, Crowley leans on his left arm, and puts his right hand at the nape of Aziraphale's neck, bringing their foreheads together. The angel holds him by the waist, pressing closer and Crowley rolls his hips for the first time.

Aziraphale's brows draw together in an expression that's both pleasure and pain. His moans are a deep soft whisper that Crowley will never forget. It's simply stunning and it’s beautiful and wonderful. It’s everything, and most of all, it’s so hard to believe it's all his doing. It's too unreal. 

The pace, at first slow and tentative, builds up over time, all the while, Crowley is looking for the slightest hints of discomfort, adjusting his movements and pace as needed. He reads Aziraphale's face like a map, remembering all the little things that he likes and discarding those that he doesn't. 

It's a different world to the hurried means to an end that he's used to.

"I think I'm— I'm—"

Crowley picks up the pace only by a fraction and curls his hand around the solid weight of Aziraphale's cock, that's as velvety as always and taut as a bowstring. His back arches as he spills over Crowley's hand and there's only one word on his lips—" _ Crowley".  _

It's too much and Crowley moves to pull out, he can't control it for much longer, but Aziraphale's soft hands grab him by the hips and press closer to himself. " _ Don't you dare _ , "he whispers.

Crowley comes only a few thrusts later, with tears in his eyes from the intensity of it all.

He leans his forehead on Aziraphale's shoulder, not sure what to do with his hands now. He doesn't want to come back to his senses, but he does and withdraws, pulling out in the process. If he doesn't do it now, he might never be able to do it. There is this confused sense of guilt telling him that he should be paying the man instead, for enjoying it as much as he has. 

_ Or maybe there shouldn't be any payment at all?  _

Yet another thing he adds to the list of things he'll never tell Aziraphale. 

"Are you okay?" Crowley asks, because the man hasn't moved in a while.

"Yes, I— could you hold me? Please? "

Crowley shouldn't, but he rolls closer without delay, chest to back, hands locking around Aziraphale and pressing into the familiar valleys of his body. He holds him tight. There is something in Aziraphale's voice that's just on the wrong side of heartbreak and Crowley is so powerless against it. It makes him want to kiss away all the hurt.

They stay in the embrace in complete silence. Crowley's trying to convince his thumping heart he's only doing this to ease the man in his arms and not at all because he maddeningly, desperately needs to feel him now. 

Sometimes Crowley fantasises about who the man might be — imagines him in a deep chair in a vast library of an estate, perhaps a castle, with books reaching the very top of a tall ceiling. In his imagination Crowley is a butler [7] that brings Aziraphale shortbread and sometimes his master even lets him linger and watch him eat. And there would be a secret garden, where they would meet and—

"Oh dear!" Aziraphale sits up first. A wince of discomfort. "I'm quite sure I went over my time." He fusses and Crowley already loves it so much. He lets his hand wander into the blond curls and kisses Aziraphale's neck.

"Don't worry, I'm finished for the day now, you can stay however long you like. We don't charge for the time  _ after _ ." He lies, tracing patterns along Aziraphale's spine, reaches for his hand and kisses his knuckles like he's some sort of a bloody prince. But Aziraphale must have liked it because his features brighten.

"Oh. Oh, good."

He wants to stay like this forever.

He is completely buggered.

"I wished there were spaces, where we could go to… just be." Aziraphale says quietly.

Bee's words hammer into Crowley's mind.  _ Find what you can about him.  _ He could ask his questions now, but he doesn't. He has no reason not to trust Aziraphale, whoever he might be.

"There are," Crowley says before he can bite his tongue, "I could show you if you'd like. Take you to some… fun pubs, if you catch my meaning." 

"I'd like that," the man brightens and Crowley's heart sings. 

There's no running water in their building, not even a toilet, but Crowley's creative. He brings a washcloth, soaked in candle-warmed water (especially for this occasion), and cleans them both. He diligently brushes every bit of Aziraphale's beautiful skin and it feels… intimate. The aftercare no one ever stays to experience (no one in their right mind would pay for the time). 

Once it's done he gives Aziraphale space and privacy, as if Crowley hasn't catalogued every blemish, every dip of his body, every last curl of chest hair.

He turns anyway and towards the heavy chest that contains all his belongings—mostly clothes. Briefly, he considers his red muslin dress, it's the only one he has. Louis bought it for him back in the day. He puts it away in the favour of a much more moderate black jacket—he needs to look ordinary. Even though he prefers more flamboyant attire, he can't draw unnecessary attention. (Society doesn't care about what he wants.)

Once he finishes dressing up, Aziraphale is already waiting, watching him intently with something that could easily be mistaken for admiration. 

Together they set out on a short walk towards Drury Lane, Crowley's favourite pub. The night is quiet and starry and Crowley finds himself enjoying it much more than he expected. He liked looking at stars, it reminded him that there is something bigger out there than them, bigger than any of this.

"There's more to the city than meets the eye, if you know what to look for," Crowley winks as they turn into a street lit with gas lamps [10] and stars disappear from his view. "The Moorfields, Lincoln's Inn, the south of St. James Park."

"No!" Aziraphale gasps, covering his mouth with his hands and Crowley chuckles. "That's where I go to feed the ducks! I was… not aware."

"Yes, the piazzas in Covent Garden too, you just have to be observant enough to notice, but it's the molly houses that are the warmest places for people like... us. Ah, here we are."

The sign that hung above the doors read  _ Red Lion.  _ By all accounts the place looked like a very ordinary pub. Crowley opens the door for Aziraphale, like a proper gentleman would and they both walk inside. 

There's a brief moment, when those present stop and send curious gazes across their way, but then Crowley waves to the owner behind the bar—Madame Tracy, who smiles back at him warmly as they walk towards her.

"Now here's someone I haven't seen in a long time," she winks at Crowley as cheekily as always. She looks colourful with her red wig and patchy dress, Crowley’s on fashion icon.

"Tracy! Charming as always. Please meet my, er, my  _ friend.  _ I'm showing him  _ places _ around the town." Crowley waves vaguely towards Aziraphale. 

"You don't have to be covert with me, I might have retired, but you should remember we shared a profession not that long ago. Though I've been wise enough to work only for myself. I've always said there is no better-paying job for a woman." She babbles on cheerfully.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, his eyebrows shooting upwards. 

Crowley grins, while Madame Tracy prattles on: "I quite liked it, actually. It took me only three years to save up for this establishment." [8] She gestures around with her hand and smiles widely to Aziraphale. "Need a room, dears?"

Aziraphale wiggles on the bar stool at this and it wakes up something vaguely possessive in him. "That won't be necessary today." Crowley blushes, wishing there was a more comfortable sitting place for his angel, he must still be quite sore.

"I see," Tracy winks to Crowley and pours them a pint of ale each. It's not wine, but in a place like this, it has to do. 

Madame Tracy moves on to the next customer and Crowley turns around to face the crowd. A few feet away, in the corner of the tavern, one man is sitting on the other one's lap. A couple of women are standing by the door frame and whispering, touching in a way most people would consider indecent, but not here. Unexpectedly a man in a lacy dress and petticoats runs in front of them, someone else starts to sing. 

There is a pervasive atmosphere of  _ joy _ .

With a corner of his eye he sees Aziraphale smiling, really smiling. Not a polite and stilted thing, but one that reaches his eyes, making them crinkle in the corners. 

"I hear that at the White Swan on Vere Street there is an actual ordained minister, performing marriage ceremonies for  _ anyone _ who wants them." [9] Crowley aims for a nonchalant, but overshoots by a mile and ends up sounding hopeful. Did Aziraphale notice that among all the cheer? 

Crowley never considered marriage before, but here and now the thought doesn't seem so ridiculous anymore. 

He glances towards Aziraphale who fiddles with his tartan cravat and rolls his sleeves up a little, his cheeks are deliciously flushed.  _ Outrageous,  _ Crowley thinks and smiles to himself, takes a sip from his own drink as he leans his back on the bar behind him, one arm on the counter. 

A warm hand unexpectedly lands on his and his heart stops. He can't make himself turn, but his hand reacts immediately and winds itself around the soft, pale fingers. It's nothing in comparison to all the indecency that happens in the building, but between the two of them, does it have a meaning? Aziraphale is not paying him anymore, they're here as… who exactly? He doesn't let himself overthink it. 

"That was an extraordinary experience," Aziraphale muses once they leave a few hours later. Crowley's hand still burns with Aziraphale's touch and just how ridiculous is this? 

"Often there's also dancing involved. I'm sorry you've missed it, it's remarkable." Crowley is already imagining it in his head and thinks that dancing with Aziraphale would be a marvelous thing. Not because of the proximity of their bodies, though that's certainly always nice, but because he could look into his eyes and see the troubles of the word chased away. 

Lost in his thoughts, he almost misses the faintest notes of music coming from the nearby Drury theatre. There are stars above them and maybe it’s the magic of the moment, or maybe the alcohol in his veins, but he bows and extends his hand in a silent question.

Aziraphale stops and is looking only at him, with his partially opened lips and disbelieving eyes. It's late and dark, no gas lamps on their way, no one will see them here, but Aziraphale doesn't even look around. In some incredible mad way he  _ trusts  _ Crowley—he takes his hand and a moment later they're swaying to a waltz-like melody along the empty street. He follows the steps he learnt in a previous life and when Aziraphale's brows arch slightly in surprised approval, Crowley knows he’s never been this happy before.

The song ends as abruptly as it began and they stop moving, but do not let go of each other. The atmosphere, the warm summer air, the stars—it all crafts a perfectly weaved illusion Crowley swore to never fall for again. But the body in his embrace is warm, Aziraphale's face hopeful, so he leans in, almost imperceptibly.

And the spell breaks.

Aziraphale lets go of his hands and takes a step away. "Oh dear, look at the time! I really—I should be going now. Same time next week?"

The man nods and walks away in haste. Crowley understands, and yet as he watches Aziraphale go, he wonders—why does he even feel so heartbroken? There isn't anything the man hasn't already offered him, except the thing which he dared not to name and the existence of which he doesn't believe anyway. Not anymore. 

If there's anything he’s learnt in his profession, it’s that the only concrete things are touch and the pleasures of the flesh. Everything else is just an illusion for those who want to be fooled. All smoke and mirrors, none of it real. None of this ever was. It's easy to feel warm on the heart, when the circumstances are exactly right.

That's not love.

He walks back to the place he calls his home more disappointed than he left it, ready to end this night as soon as he possibly can but fate has never been kind to Crowley. Once he opens the doors, he sees Bee, one leg over the armrest, head leaning on their hand and covering their eyes.

"He's the bloody brother of the new chief constable," they say. "We're completely buggered."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [8] Madam Trace is based off a historical figure, all of her history mentioned here is based on facts.
> 
> [9] This is also a fact! The priest's name was John Church. Although the sources coming mostly from prosecution records aren't certain whether those arrangements were supposed to last longer than a single evening.
> 
> [10] The first well-recorded public street lighting with gas was demonstrated in London in 1807. By 1823, numerous towns and cities throughout Britain were lit by gas
> 
> /// I would like to start reccing my favourite fics with similar themes! It always feels like a bit of a niche to me, so please let me know if you come across any:)
> 
> First one is my absolute favourite and once that I borrowed the title of this chapter from as a tribute – [ Leave the lights on ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20486753/chapters/48614495) by killerqueer and Venture Train. It's You've Got Mail with Phone Sex AU. A wip, so bear that in mind, but if you don’t mind a little wait, I wholeheartedly recommend it. I can't get over how good it already is.


	4. Who are you, Aziraphale?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we'll see a different point of view...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: misgendering (not as a result of bad intentions), homophobia
> 
> Thank you [ brinjal ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinjal/pseuds/brinjal) for your hard beta work and [ Naromoreau ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau) for casting your eyes over the plot! 💞

"Crowley's not available today." Bee tells him without a hint of emotion. Aziraphale always found it difficult to talk to her (he presumed it was her, though he really couldn't tell from their attire) The mean expression chilling something in his bones.

"Oh dear, has something happened to him?" He frets. It's a dangerous world and they're playing a dangerous game, he knows. 

"No, he's just been rented out for a few days." The black-haired individual explains.

"A few days!?" Aziraphale feels his throat constricting. It sounds like such a long time and he wasn't even aware that was a possibility.  _ What?  _ He wants to yell, but the word dies on his tongue, as they always do. Instead he forces on a nervous smile.

Bee flashes them a predatory gaze that hardly matches their bored tone. "Yeah, special client and all. Crowley's our star, you understand. But don't worry, he will be back." 

"Yes, yes, of course." Aziraphale smiles again, trying very hard not to fiddle with the hem of his vest, already frayed at the edges. 

"Perhaps I can offer you a replacement? Same price bracket, I promise you won't feel the difference."

"No, that… that won't be necessary, thank you." He says as politely as he can muster in the current situation. "Do you know when, ah— When Crowley will be back?"

"Next week, I'd have thought."

"Oh." He nods and takes a step back all the while Bee is pinning him with their gaze. "Thank you… I suppose I will take my leave now." Bowing one too many times, he exits the ringer house, pulling his coat higher and his hat lower. 

"Aziraphale." Bee yells after him, and they might as well be looking through his vintage vestments, peeling away the flesh and sinew, and into his soul. " _ Don't _ hurt him." Then the doors shut in his face.

_ That was… odd enough, even for Bee _ , he thinks, feeling the cold fear spreading through his stomach. Whatever could they mean? There is so much Aziraphale is hiding within, he can’t even begin to guess which part of him had been uncovered. Has Aziraphale's attachment to Crowley been that obvious? Has Bee noticed? Has Crowley?

The sting of guilt doesn't want to go away, no matter what he does. Trapped between two worlds, continually smothering the pieces of himself that bring him the greatest shame, the ones he fears would be rejected if discovered. There is a pin for every secret he keeps from people around him, digging into his very being and weighing him down. 

It is a part of the experience as much as everything else. 

Now, he even misses the feeling of shame. He misses Crowley and everything that Crowley brought to his life — all the unacceptable and sinful things. But with Crowley, it had never felt that way. It felt peaceful and joyus. It felt… right.

As he walks back towards his bookshop, he can’t stop wondering where Crowley might be at this time of the night or with whom… not that he has a problem with Crowley's profession, he is just worried. Alas, it was better not to dwell on it, nor on the way Crowley clung to him and held tight or whispered to his ear and bit it…  _ oh dear.  _

_ Remember, for Crowley you are just a client. _

Aziraphale sighs, absent-mindedly replicating his steps back home — a familiar corner here, a pavement pothole there — to his quiet patch of the world, that today feels weirdly... empty.

If only he knew what he would find in that ringer house weeks before, he might have never gone there. He would have never realised what he was and his life would be all the more simple for it. 

But he would never have met Crowley and that was, somehow, even worse. Meeting him was so important that his life was now divided between before and after Crowley. Not meeting him would mean being incomplete. 

Aziraphale hadn’t  _ planned  _ on things going the way they have, he hadn’t intended to end up with a rent-boy, much less with one who was as handsome as Crowley. But in the heat of the moment, he had wanted it so much, he’d felt close to losing his mind — that was part of Crowley's charm — once in the man's embrace, he never wanted to leave. 

That first time… well, that whole experience had been rather  _ weird _ and Aziraphale couldn't quite pinpoint why. A big part of this was certainly the guilt he was feeling over the whole encounter. He had firmly decided never to go back to that ringer house, but the truth was that he couldn't stop thinking about Crowley. Here was this magnificent and mysterious star and Aziraphale was mesmerised enough to follow wherever it went.

He was helpless.

In the end, he convinced himself coming back wouldn’t mean anything and that it made sense to at least have the ‘full experience’ and not run away like a scaredy cat afterwards. He needed to  _ know  _ if this was really a part of him and in order to find out, he needed to reciprocate Crowley’s efforts. At least that's what he told himself, back then.

Aziraphale knows now that he was only coming up with elaborate excuses to appease his conscience. Because, seeing Crowley unravel? That had definitely felt  _ right,  _ and it was the moment everything had clicked in place. It was as if the sun had risen up over the horizon, illuminating Aziraphale's entire being with its rays. 

He had enjoyed it, more than he ever thought he would (and he never thought he would). He accepted that there was something fundamentally wrong with him, something that could never be repaired, just another area where he didn't measure up to what was expected of him and... it was scary not knowing how or why he was different.

The sudden appearance of his bookshop frontage takes Aziraphale off guard. The walk from the ringer house to his safe place in Soho only takes about fifteen minutes, but he hadn’t felt any of that time pass by. Aziraphale looks to his right, then to his left and finally produces a key and steps inside. 

The bookshop is Aziraphale’s  _ only _ personal space. Every other sphere of his life has already been invaded and subordinated by Gabriel — his older and much more successful brother — but here he can just be himself. He hangs his coat on a hanger, takes off his hat and proceeds to make himself a warm cup of tea.

Idly, he wonders, as he reaches out for his favourite mug with wings and puts his brass kettle on the iron stove, if he could rent Crowley out for a week, could he plausibly hide him in the bookshop? The reality is that he's been fantasising about this much more than it is healthy. They could drink wine together and snuggle on the couch under a heavy blanket, Crowley sprawled all over him while Aziraphale was reading. The most ridiculously domestic things, really.

And maybe Crowley would wear that lovely red dress — the one Aziraphale had only managed to catch a glimpse of — while he was getting dressed after their last time together. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Did Crowley wear it for his job or was that his private attire? Does he don it to dance and make merry at the molly house? There were so many questions he wanted to ask but couldn’t.

He waves the thought away and sits down in his favourite armchair with the jasmine tea, into which he sprinkled cinnamon for good measure. That already makes him feel better.

Aziraphale knows he could never invite Crowley here — that would be far too public. No, the arrangement they currently have will have to suffice, and in a week’s time, he will see Crowley again. He just has to find something else to occupy himself in the meantime, rearrange the books perhaps. It's been awhile since the last time he's done this.

His gaze brushes over the spines of his sizable collection of leather-bound books and rare first editions, catches on an old dusty mirror reflecting his tired eyes back to him. He realises with a pang of sadness that he doesn’t recognize the man on the other side anymore. 

_ Who are you, Aziraphale? Who are you really? _

A chameleon soul with no fixed personality, just an inner indecisiveness that is as wide and as wavering as the ocean.

His gaze meanders off to a copy of  _ The North London Press  _ [11] lying on his coffee table, unmoved from where his brother left it several weeks prior.

_ Chief constable on a streak of closing disorderly sodomite houses, _ reads the main headline

Aziraphale sighs at the triumphant face of his classically handsome brother. He’s only trying to earn public support, Aziraphale knows that. As religion is gaining importance once more, Gabriel has been named a new beacon of morality.

A sudden ring of his doorbell startles Aziraphale out of his slump. Had he forgotten to lock the door? "I'm afraid we're most definitely— Gabriel? What an, er, surprise! What are you doing here?" 

This was unprecedented, even for Gabriel. Thursday was the day Aziraphale tended to his books until late (or so he told his brother) and thus he had never bothered to come by. Until tonight.

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel outstretches his arms as if in a cordial gesture that Aziraphale knows is fake. "I've been in the area, working, of course! I thought I would drop by to see how you're doing. Still adamant on keeping this mouldy den?" He takes a few steps forward, ignoring the lack of invitation, and stretches himself on the couch in front of Aziraphale, his coat still on his shoulders.

"It belonged to our mother; of course I am." Aziraphale's hands clench around his mug. He's been telling Gabriel as much for the past few years now.

His only brother gives him a strained smile in response. "Sentimental, as always. It will be your demise one of these days. Mark my words"

Gabriel was tall, slender and successful, older than Aziraphale by about ten years, and  _ always _ their father’s favourite. He’d grown up in his brother’s shadow, constantly reminded that he was less than Gabriel. It didn’t help that they looked nothing alike—him being pudgy and shapeless—no one would have every thought they were related, let alone that they were brothers.

"You know our father, God rest his soul, left us in financial trouble when his merchant ship crashed on the shore. He didn't leave us much to go by after this. The only reason we can live in this  _ relative _ luxury is because of the Fell name and small amount he did manage to save. But the savings  _ will _ run out eventually." Aziraphale feels his soul collapsing on itself. How many times he's heard this now? "I’m doing what I can, but you well know that police wages don’t cover the lives of gentlemen. We might even be forced to sell our estate! Can you imagine that? It has to either be this bookshop or you'll have to marry, Aziraphale, and marry well. I'd do it myself if I was eligible..." Gabriel says in a tone that suggests otherwise. "...I'm sure you'll do well enough. You just have to lose some of the—” he pats his belly meaningfully, “—and pluck your nose out of your books from time to time.”

_ Marry _ . The thought alone makes the blood in Aziraphale's veins boil. He knows now, beyond any doubt, that he is not suited for marriage, not the legal kind, anyway. But how could he ever explain that to Gabriel?

He knows there is another option, too, one he is reluctant to take. Aziraphale looks towards his little safe he had installed once his mother died. Inside there is a single item - the  _ Sybillenbuch _ \- a prophecy book printed by Gutenberg, before his famous bible. Aziraphale's mother gave it to him before she passed away. It would be worth quite a lot on today's market, but Aziraphale was reluctant to sell it. 'No one else respects books in this family,' his mum told him. God he missed her so much.

"The bookshop is making profit." Aziraphale protests and his only argument is met with a condescending smile. At least he is spared any additional comments. They have been rehearsing this conversation over and over for years now, never reaching any real conclusion.

"I know, I know, but that's not why I'm here now. I didn't come here to quarrel.” Gabriel leans over. “Have you found out any new leads for me?" 

_ Oh. This is even worse. _

Aziraphale still clenches his only half-empty mug and feels cold sweat running down his neck. Of course he couldn’t have avoided this indefinitely, contrary to his hopes.

Ever since Gariel started his career in the police force, Aziraphale had been there every step of the way to support him, eventually taking over some smaller tasks. As time passed, Gabriel had become more demanding and Aziraphale, having a deep-rooted desire to be useful, had relented. It's not like he was busy, having only the bookshop to take care of and, as long as he was working, Gabriel wasn't pushing with his matrimonial ideas.

So, he did what Gabriel expected of him and even got paid a little bit for it, which kept him going and his little bookshop too, for the time being. If someone asked Aziraphale about it, he wouldn’t even have been able to tell them the exact year he had become an undercover informant for the police.

"No, um, sorry. Ever since you closed that molly house at Field Lane, it seems people just moved onto more… legal establishments." Aziraphale says, slumping back in his chair and hoping he sounds convincing enough.

" _ We _ closed, Aziraphale, don't ever say I don't give you credit." Gabriel pats him on the shoulder and Aziraphale fights against a wince. "Just because you can't see them, doesn't mean they're gone, disgusting people. They're probably cowering somewhere in the filthy districts. Keep looking, they're bound to show their nose at some point."

"I will," Aziraphale mutters with a stiffened smile, setting his now cold tea on the coffee table as Gabriel turns to leave. "Don't worry."

His brother winks at him at the doors. "I knew I could count on you."

Aziraphale slumps even further down his chair, reaching underneath for a bottle of wine he was keeping here for a special occasion. 

_ Despair is as good an occasion as any other,  _ he decides uncorking the bottle.

He waves the bottle as a salute to despair in the cold, dark, empty bookshop. It doesn’t salute back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [11] The North London Press was an obscure radical weekly newspaper in Victorian times London.
> 
>   
> /// Today's Rec: [ Reprise ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940948) by Cardinal_Daughter. It's about Aziraphale and Crowley in the Victorian times, human AU. It heavily inspired me to write in this period and aesthetics:) There's a lot about the culture of molly houses, also angst with a happy ending. I recommend the whole series, though it can be read as a standalone. (This is the 2nd part in the series, but first in the chronological order.)


	5. Paper Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is angst...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit intense, please mind the Trigger Warnings below:
> 
> TW: one instance of non-graphic physical assault, mention of blood (you can skip this part by going to the first chapter break), mentions of Crowley's past relationship (includes a flashback rated E that's clearly separated by page breaks and can be omitted), manipulation, possessive Lucifer. (He gets a little creepy in this chapter, but nothing graphic happens, promise).
> 
> Thank you brinjal for your very helpful beta with this chapter ❤

Crowley leaves the brothel just before midnight and heads towards Mayfair—exclusive district in one of the most expensive parts of London. It's also where Louis rents out his prestigious villa for only the most _valued_ clients. 

It's only a short walk away, merely thirty minutes from the ringer house, but tonight Crowley's legs are heavy as lead and he chooses the most winding and least crowded streets to get there. 

Everything feels different tonight.

It's quiet. The only sound that can be heard is the clanking of his heels on the cobblestone paving. The stars shine just as bright as the night before, and Crowley is fighting the urge to reach out and touch. He knows now, beyond any doubt, that none of it is for the likes of him. He should really have known better; Lou had taught him as much this years ago. 

And yet Crowley's heart quivers and his stomach ties into a knot at the memory of the recent weeks that were nothing if not magical. He's crossing a line by even admitting it to himself, but he _wants_ this. All of it. He wants it to be real and not just an illusion, desperately, _obsessively_ clutching on to every single image imprinted into his memory and every sensation that his angel has left behind on his skin.

God, it felt so _real_.

The way Aziraphale took his hand in his at the Red Lion, absently stroking his thumb over Crowley's knuckles in short, slow movements. The warmth, his smile… it felt so _real._

But it wasn't.

It couldn't have been. Not with everything that Crowley knows now. Not from the brother of the chief constable. It was just another mask. It was nothing special; Crowley is wearing one as well, appearing tough in the face of danger. Was Aziraphale only waiting for the right moment to expose them all this time?

Crowley sighs, taking another turn to be even more alone, to hide his grief within this city's jungle. _It might not mean anything,_ Crowley reasons with himself. _Aziraphale might not have been involved._

Who is he even trying to fool? Bee was right all along; Crowley just didn't want to see it. From the very beginning he could tell there was something off about Aziraphale but he chose to blindly follow his heart instead. 

(It wouldn't be the first time.) 

What’s left to do now? He'll carry on as before, not letting Aziraphale know that he’d found out, and maybe he won't end up in prison like all his friends from the Field Lane molly house. _God_ , he'll never forgive himself if Bee or Tracy end up in a prison because of _him._

Crowley's heart is flapping within his ribcage in protest, telling him it all couldn't have just been an elaborate lie. There _were_ parts that were genuine, weren't there? Then what is it that he's missing?

He sighs and his heart relents, for now. Nothing good will come out of this, Crowley reminds himself firmly. Not now, not ever. 

"Not ever," he says out loud and this is the moment his gaze falls on the two bulky shadows behind him, both holding clubs in their hands.

A shudder runs down Crowley's spine as the meaning of this picture dawn on him. He bolts. It's not the first time, won't be the last—his only hope is to outrun his perpetrators. He usually can, he's fast and nimble enough, but he has walked far enough from the ringer house now that he doesn't know this part of the city… 

He races through streets that look hostile and unfamiliar and takes a turn at random. There's a rather flat, stone staircase that looks like it just might lead to a narrow passageway, but once he passes an arch and the walls grow high and the light dimmer... he knows he's trapped.

The path stops abruptly with a blank wall. A dead end. His heart hammers in his chest as he hears the footsteps closing on him. Frantically his eyes flick from gutters to narrow (even for his hips) windows, looking for a way out, until they land on a small gate in the very corner—there. That's his last hope. Hurriedly, he climbs over the stone sills and metal pipes, reaching for the top of the gate, just a little bit higher...

_Come on Crowley, you can do it._

"There he is!"

A grip of steel closes around Crowley's left ankle and tug him down to the ground. He lands on his back with a hollow thump and loses all the breath from his lungs.

"You can't run away forever, molly." The thug says ominously and spits to the ground next to him.

"Please, you're… most definitely mistaken—" Crowley pants with difficulty, scrambling to his feet, but a kick to his stomach sends him back to the ground. The second kick lands on his temple, making his vision spin.

"Saw you with a bloke, liar. We don't want the likes of you here!"

Having his only weapon fail in the face of the violence, Crowley covers his head in his hands, curling on himself. A few shutters close with a thud above him, pointing out what Crowley already knows is true—there is no scenario here in which he leaves this place unharmed. Maybe this is how his story ends, in a dark alleyway in one of the districts forgotten by God. _Everything has to end eventually_ , he muses darkly, accepting that there's no one who would come to rescue him.

His limbs tighten reflexively around himself as he waits for more blows to arrive, but none do. There are distant shouts and footsteps, but Crowley is too frozen in fear to move or even open his eyes.

"You good?" A familiar voice asks close to his ear. _Hastur,_ Crowley thinks and opens his eyes to see the man slouching over him. Never in his life Crowley thought he would be happy to see his ugly face. "They got you good, " he sums up.

Crowley looks around bewildered at the sudden change of situation. The thugs that wanted to hurt him are now gone, chased away by two men Crowley doesn't recognise, that now stand at the top of the alley.

"Thanks for your helpful observation." Crowley says with more bite than he intended and sits up on the cold floor. His hand reflexively reaches to inspect his wound and he hisses. It stings. His dark shirt is now stained with blood and torn on his back.

"Just saying," Hastur shrugs, unfazed. "If not for us, this might have ended really, really bad. You're on your way to the villa?"

"Where else do you think I was going at this hour?" He snaps.

Hastur rolls his eyes. "Want us to escort you?" 

"I'll be fine. It's only a couple of blocks from here now." He responds unconvincingly. Is he that paranoid that he doesn't trust anyone anymore?

"Suit yourself." Hastur stands up and nods to his own companions. "Be careful; there's more like them around."

Crowley watches him go, then flops onto his back, exhausted.

_It never rains but it pours._

* * *

When Crowley finally reaches the villa, he immediately collapses onto the four poster bed. Heavy red curtains sway around him as he sinks into the welcoming softness of the pillows and quilt beneath. _At last_ he's surrounded with lavishness and luxury; a stark contrast to his dark, dingy den at Cleveland Street. 

The truth is, he likes being here.

He likes the open inglenook, from where a fire is pleasantly crackling and gas lamps that can be turned on with a flick of his hand. There is even an indoor bathroom with running water. The warmth and exquisite meals are particular treats, though he had had to learn the etiquette behind a ridiculous mountain of cutlery. 

It's all for him but only for now. Once the clock strikes midnight, the magic is over, the coach turns back into a pumpkin and the lackeys into mice. The lap of luxury he's allowed is only temporary, a perk of his profession, a side effect of the people he mingles with.

Louis made sure Crowley knows his place—every time he enters the villa, he has to go through the servant's door at the back. In case he's ever forgotten that he too is only a servant here. Just another lackey.

Crowley glances to his left and looks at the string that he knows is attached to a bell in the servants' quarters. From experience, Crowley knows that the attic is cold in the winter and stuffy in the summer. He'd been a servant for a very long time, in a place not too dissimilar to this one. It paid only a fraction of what he earns today, within an hour, but it had its own benefits too. He was allowed to keep his long hair, for one. At one point, red curls had tumbled way past his shoulders and most people had mistaken him for a girl. That is how he’d caught Lou's eye to begin with. 

He'd been working for the Morningstar family for a while before he got assigned to be Lou's personal valet. [12] He remembers being excited and nervous about the new position and not only because it was a promotion. Lou was a charismatic man with a striking beauty and was only several years his senior. When he walked into a room, every head turned towards him, everyone stood up to talk to him. 

Crowley, too, was drawn to his magnetic personality like a moth to a flame, burning his wings before he knew it. But once that magnificent man _noticed_ him, nothing mattered anymore. 

Lou treated Crowley well—gave him treats and never yelled at him (not even when he spilled wine on the carpet), and Crowley understood him in turn—the oppressive frames of the society were suffocating them both.

He was the oldest of eight siblings, which invariably made him the poorest of an already poor family in Catholic Ireland. Ever since he could remember he could only count on himself, but meeting Lou was supposed to change that.

One day Crowley brought Lou breakfast, as always, and Lou offered to share it with him. That happened less often, but wasn't unusual either, but then–

* * *

[This part will contain Crowley/Lucifer, it's ALL A MEMORY, but please skip to the next page break if this is not your thing]

They're sat by a small table in Lou's bedroom, Crowley just finished setting the breakfast down and was allowed to linger.

Unexpectedly Lou raises a piece of buttery toast with cherries in syrup to Crowley's lips. He has _never_ done this before. The smell of warm bread travels up his nostrils as he watches the last of the solid butter melting into it, not sure what to make of this temptation. He bites his lip, searching Lou's eyes for an answer. It might mean nothing, it might mean everything, with Lou nothing was ever for certain. The man with ebony, soft as silk hair only smiles wider.

Louis is only partially dressed. His white shirt hangs loosely on his body, falling down his left shoulder and exposing the perfect lines of his collarbone. Against the background of the dark, patterned tapestry, he looks like a Renaissance painting. 

"Go on, it's not a trick." Lou’s encouragement has Crowley feeling all the blood rushing to his cheeks. 

He takes a bite, only small at first, then a bigger one. The taste of candied cherries spreads over his tongue. There might be a moan that escapes him, he isn't sure, too far gone wondering if Lou's mouth would taste the same. He's never savoured anything this sweet before.

Lou looks satisfied and his fingers brush on Crowley's lips, making Crowley shiver for a reason he doesn't yet understand. But Lou does and a moment later he is leaning in, joining their lips in the most chaste, yet exciting, kiss Crowley has ever experienced. It really does taste of cherries.

Crowley has never kissed a man before, not like this (though he already knows he has this socially unacceptable inclination). It's different. Rougher. His breath hitches and his heart beats faster, his trousers suddenly becoming very tight. 

Louis notices it immediately and smiles again, falling to his knees in front of Crowley, and isn't that something? The line between a servant and master has blurred. They are equal, if only for a time.

"I could help you with that," Lou breathes into Crowley's thigh. It’s lewd and so different to the kiss they shared mere seconds ago. [13] There's something wild and predatory in his gaze, a beautiful, wild animal that _wants_ him. 

" _Please."_ Crowley whimpers and Lou doesn't need to be told twice. His hands untangle Crowley's trousers swiftly; his mouth finds him easily. Crowley is hypnotised by the view and entranced by the sensations that overtake him. It doesn't take long. There's that familiar heat that pools between his thighs and builds up at the back of his spine until he can't take it any longer and his thighs stutter of their own volition. Lou swallows every last drop of him.

"My sweet prince, you truly are remarkable," Louis says, sweeter than even those cherries, and climbs onto Crowley's lap to cradle his limp body in his arms. This time they kiss senselessly, like there's no tomorrow. "Do you think you could do the same, for me?" 

Crowley has never done this before but it doesn't even come to his mind to refuse. At this point he'd do anything for Lou, anything the man could ask him for. 

In one corner of the room stands the biggest four poster bed Crowley has ever had the opportunity to change the bedsheets for, padded with a mattress so soft you could entirely sink into it. Still kissing, they move onto the bed, where Lou falls on the bedsheets and Crowley drops to his knees.

"You're breathtaking," Lou tells him, winding fingers into Crowley's hair. He's gentle and caring, guiding Crowley and showing him what to do, showing him how he likes his pleasure. "That's it, I'm—" Lou pulls Crowley up and kisses him again, striping his uniform with the proof of his own pleasure, a proof of ownership.

"You're mine now," Lou tells him, enclosing him in his arms protectively and pulling him on to the bed. "My sweet prince. We'll never be apart."

Crowley remembers the soft mattress underneath, the warmth of Lou's body as he laid there in another man’s embrace for the first time. He remembers feeling a deep sense of peace and belonging, a conviction that Lou would always look after him, no matter what happened, that they would never be apart. 

What Crowley didn't know is that Lou needed him—to escape, to establish his new business, to not be alone. Whether Lou really cared for Crowley in his own weird and twisted way, or if Crowley was merely a tool in his hands, he will probably never know. And he suspects Lou might not know that either.

When they finally escape Ireland together, leaving the Morningstar family behind, Crowley believes it is so they can finally be together. He couldn't have been more wrong. 

Once they arrived in London, everything changed.

* * *

Crowley turns his head to look at the clock. He has about an hour before the client comes in and he's still a mess. 

Groaning, he stands up to take a piece of cloth to clean his wound, his feet brushing on the thick, soft carpet lining almost every slat of the hardwood floor. He wets the material under a brass tap and cleans the cut in front of a mirror. It stings. There's a nasty cut and there is already a bruise blooming on his forehead. 

Bloody hell.

He reaches for wine, uncorks it with precision and takes a swig straight from the bottle. It's not that he's trying to get drunk, he just needs to take the edge off a pain that's more internal than not, or so he reasons with himself as he climbs back onto the bed. He's going to pretend for a moment that this place belongs only to him, with all the peace and quiet that comes with it.

It doesn't last long.

A sudden sound of footsteps jolts him back to reality. _Too early,_ Crowley thinks. But before he can move, a familiar face appears in the doorway—short dark hair and a very fashionable suit. _That's not right, Lou doesn't usually come here._

A wide smirk appears on Lou's face. "I almost forgot how pretty you look, sprawled out on the bed like that." 

Crowley's breath hitches and he scrambles to sit up. It's a surprise to hear even a hint of their past from the man's lips and an even bigger one for Crowley to feel warm on his chest. It wasn't like Lou to bring it up after so many years. 

The man's brows knit together once he notices Crowley's sorry state. His gaze slides over Crowley's forehead and his torn clothes.

"Oh my sweet prince, what has happened to you?" Louis closes the space between them and kneels in front of Crowley to inspect his wound. Crowley whimpers at the shocking amount of affection he’s been afforded as Lou's fingers touch his forehead. He doesn't want to feel it, but it ties something in his stomach.

"It's nothing, some thugs didn't like the way I looked," Crowley says, pulling away. "Luckily, Hastur was in the area."

Lou shifts his hand to run it through Crowley's hair, seemingly not offended. "It's the hair, isn't it? I told you we should do something about it."

"Look, I'm fine. You needn't worry, really."

Louis gives him one last firm look (the kind one would give a child) and finally withdraws. "Alright." He circles the room a few times before finally settling on the throne-like chair, putting his legs up on the table in front of it. (Apart from the centrally positioned bed that leaves no illusion as to the purpose of this room, there is also a small table and a chair that resembles a throne. Lou is certainly aiming at a particular clientele here.) "I've heard you've had some interesting clients, recently?" He asks, taking Crowley off-guard.

His gaze shoots up as the realisation dawns upon him. _That's the real reason you're here._

Of course it was only a matter of time before the word somehow got Lou. 

_Was it Bee?_

It hurts to admit it, but Crowley doesn't think there is anyone else who knows about it. Would they do it? _Someone has to,_ Bee's voice echoes in his mind. If they thought they were protecting Crowley, yes, they would.

"You know how much you mean to me," Lou continues and it sounds _almost_ affectionate. "I want only the best for you, and you know that people come and go, but I will always be here for you. I promised you that."

Crowley's thoughts come back to those words ‘ _we will always be together’._ He hasn't broken that promise, nor has he broken any other ones made to Crowley. That he never promised much is another story. It's only Crowley's fault for not reading the small print. And doesn't everything come with a price? 

Everything Crowley has today came from Lou; without him he's nothing. He even has medical support at the ringer house—how many rent-boys can say that? 

It's not that Crowley is particularly loyal or committed to the man, he's not delusional. Strictly speaking, they aren't even friends, despite Crowley's continued struggle to refuse Lou's charm. But Lou is right about one thing—he _is_ the only constant in Crowley's life and he will always offer help. That it comes with a price tag is an entirely different matter.

One day soon, Crowley will lose his looks, his grace and get old—what will happen to him then? The ringer house is the only home he has. 

"It's… there is someone new." Crowley says, biting his lip and sees Lou's eyes lighting up. "Nice lad, a bit fussy, pays well…" he says, observing Lou closely, but not able to read anything in him. "Just a new regular." He shrugs.

Lou's toying with a large, probably hideously expensive pen in his hands, considering it. "And do you know who he is? Name, anything?" His tone is still casual, his features indifferent. 

Crowley shakes his head, "he never told me, very secretive that one." He doesn't know why he says it. Maybe out of misplaced hope that it wasn't Bee, that there still are things Lou doesn't know, that Aziraphale is worth protecting. 

"Well then," something wild flashes in Lou's eyes, "wonder no more. His name is Aziraphale, but what's more important, his _brother_ is the new chief constable and _you_ are going to help me bring him down."

"Take him down? How?" A shiver runs down Crowley's spine.

"Oh that's very easy actually. I want you to stage a provocation. Aziraphale is a regular, right? Drag him out into public, take him to an alehouse or whatever, rent a room—that's all. I'll make sure someone is there to notice and that's that. Gabriel's career ruined. I can already see the headlines!" He waves his hand in the air. ' _Chief police becoming the very thing he hunts_.' Not strictly true, but no one cares about the truth these days."

Lou grins wider and Crowley feels panic gripping his body, his heart racing. "That's suicide! I thought you said—"

"Have I ever let _anyone_ harm you?" Lou suddenly comes closer to pull Crowley's hair back from his forehead. Too close and too intimate for his liking, but he doesn't protest. "Don't worry. We'll spin the story against your friend, 'a high placed aristocrat demoralising working class youth' or something of this sort. Nothing bad will happen to you, trust me."

_Trust me,_ Lou said once he left behind his wealthy family and they set out for London together, where Crowley had imagined a whole different life for them. ' _Come with me_ . W _e will always be together',_ he said and Crowley followed like a fool he was. Not able to read between the lines, not understanding what it really meant. He stays silent.

"Still, changing your looks should help and it's high time you're brought up to standards." Lou abruptly takes a step back and whistles. 

A servant, one that Crowley hasn't seen before, enters the room. With an unyielding feeling of dread, Crowley notices that he's carrying a pair of scissors. He looks back to Lou with a silent plea, but the man doesn't seem to notice.

"You will have an escort from now on whenever you leave the brothel, I'll let Hastur know. Meanwhile servants will bring you medicine to help with your recovery. I'll tell the client to come in tomorrow; we don't want them seeing you in such a state." Lou places a warm kiss on Crowley's temple, just to the left of his wound. "Consider it a payment in advance for your task."

After that he turns away, leaving Crowley with a bundle of new worries coiling in his stomach, wrapping him in a tight web of helplessness. If there is a way out of this situation, Crowley doesn't see it. 

Briefly, Lou stops briefly by the door frame, sparing one last look at Crowley's misery. "There will be a reward if you manage and you know I can be _very_ good with rewards."

A moment later Crowley is sitting on a very expensive pouffe in the middle of the room, watching as strands of red hair are falling to the wooden floor. Lou really didn't have to do this. It was petty. What was he trying to achieve through that? Crowley knows what: compliance, that's what. Nothing hammers the point down like saying _everything you have belongs to me and I can take it whenever I want._

Crowley shudders. It's his own fault for signing a pact with the devil. It's too late now; he's fully in it. He has to follow Lou's orders, wherever they take him.

But this?

The barber snatches up Crowley's fallen hair and is gone in what feels like an instant. Crowley picks up his unfinished bottle of wine and crawls back into the bed. He has the whole day to himself to get senselessly drunk. 

And to think it was only a week ago, when he was flying high on his paper wings. 

He was always meant to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [12] In Victorian times valet was the male equivalent of a lady's maid. This was quite a high position, because they took orders directly from a lady or a gentleman. To be a lady’s maid or a valet meant that they attended personally to one particular lady/gentleman, helping them with their clothes and so on. 
> 
> [13] The age of sexual consent was raised from 10 to 12 years old in 1875 and again from 12 to 16 years old in 1885. This law has been improved upon since, but the age of consent has remained the same in the UK and is currently the same for hetero- and homosexual relationships (that was not always the case). Both boys are much older than this in the scene above.
> 
> /// Rec: It wouldn't be a complete sex workers theme rec list without [ Paper Wings, Glass Hearts ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21417970/chapters/51029974)by KiaraMGrey! I've initially intended to title my fic this way, but quick googling has proven a fic like that already exists! It's a completed, Human AU in modern times. Crowley is an escort, Aziraphale is lonely.
> 
> ***
> 
> I just want to say I really appreciate everyone's encouragement and comments, it means everything to me ❤
> 
> Unfortunately I'm not the fastest writer and will be taking a 2-week break now before posting the next chapter (because I want to upkeep the quality and because you'll prefer if I do this now than after the next chapter, believe me 🥲). After that it should go back to weekly again for a while. Thank you for your understanding ❤


	6. Remarkable, but not realistic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Angel," he swallows thickly. "I need to tell you something."
> 
> "Crowley," Aziraphale sighs. There is something I have to tell you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [ brinjal ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinjal/pseuds/brinjal) for your thorough beta , and [ Naromoreau ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau) for casting your eyes over this chapter, your encouragement and generally being here for me 💞 Also [ hanap ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap) for always tooting my horn;) 💕 Thanks guys

Crowley returns from the Mayfair villa tired, though he concludes the money is worth it, for the most part. His client was neither overly pleasant, nor was he particularly abrasive. In the grand scheme of things, he could probably be called an ordinary kind of man. Someone who could simply afford to have Crowley to himself for longer than his other customers. 

There isn't much of a variety among the clients that come to the villa—they range from rich to filthy rich and consist mostly of aristocrats and politicians, though there was even some important priest once (despite Crowley's Catholic upbringing, his lack of knowledge about the church is shocking.) In truth, he doesn't particularly care who his clients are, as long as he gets fed and paid. 

Usually Crowley doesn't come back from these jobs this exhausted, but this time he feels exceptionally  _ wrecked _ . More mentally than physically, with Lou's words still knocking around his skull and still unresolved.

This is the state in which he reaches the ringer house. Bee opens the back door for him and Crowley passes them without a word. Are they staring at his short hair, fringe falling over his forehead? Or his red-rimmed eyes? Surely both are hard to miss. With the corner of his eye, he catches Bee's gaze—there is a tinge of sad surprise curled in the corners of their own eyes. 

He doesn't have the energy to analyse this right now.

He's back in his damp, cold room with chipped plaster and mould carpeting the ceiling. The grim reality of his squalid living quarters always hits harder when he's just come back from the villa. He collapses on the bed, face forward, and curls as close to the warm air vent as possible. It makes him feel pathetic. Maybe Lou was right all along; he really isn't worth that much.

Before he can drown in his thoughts, there's a frantic knocking to his doors.  _ Gods, is there nothing sacred anymore? _

"Go away," Crowley mumbles into the sheets. He just wants to die in peace, but the doors swing open before he can protest further.

"That's what I told him, but your blond angel wanted me to make sure you're–"

"Aziraphale?" Crowley scrambles to his feet and rubs his face.  _ Bugger, is it Thursday already?  _ His mind is struggling to put the facts together.  _ Of course, he's had that extra day at the villa. Shit. _

He jumps towards the window to bring some fresh air in and looks at his bedsheets regretfully—he usually did laundry on Wednesdays. It's too late for that now.

He's not ready for this. 

"Send him up," he says, straightening creases both on the sheets and on his black shirt that's completely crumpled. 

Bee doesn't move an inch, staring at him as if evaluating whether or not Crowley can be allowed this. He's fed up with people making decisions for him.

"Crowley, are you—"

"I said, ‘SEND HIM UP’!" He yells and suddenly the only sound that can be heard is his heavy breathing. Bee looks at him with those cold, grey eyes and it strikes him they're only a smidge darker than Aziraphale's (why does that twist something in his guts?) and if he can read Bee's expression— _ you're in deep shit this time— _ he doesn't show it.

Bee disappears from the doorframe without another word and a moment later, Aziraphale takes their place, beautiful as always, stepping into the room just as Crowley finishes lighting the candles. Crowley tries his best to smile, to charm his way back into his angel's world. After all, his survival depends on it, doesn't it? 

Lou's words coil around his mind like a serpent, leading him into temptation. Its fangs have long dug into his heart to numb him with its poisonous whispers, turning Crowley's soul into something tar-black and twisted. But there is still a part of him that hasn't been tainted, something that aches for release. So what if Aziraphale never admitted who he was? So what if Crowley shouldn't care… because he does… more than he ever meant to.

Aziraphale's initial smile quickly twists into concern as his gaze slides over the fringe falling into Crowley’s eyes, over the bruise on his temple and down to his split lip, now nicely crusted over, the scab a focal jewel on the macabre art piece of his battered face. It's a look of pity, Crowley can tell. He looks pitiful and not at all charming; no longer desirable.

He is starting to have second thoughts about this. 

"Sorry, angel. I'm afraid I'm not at my... best, today." Crowley takes up a deep breath and doubles up his efforts, though his legs are shaking.  _ Come on, Crowley. You can do this, you've done it already.  _ "I can still be good for you." He puts his arms around Aziraphale's waist like many times before; pulls out his shirt and buries his hands in the soft flesh underneath, but it only tenses under his touch. 

" _ Crowley _ ." Aziraphale whispers into his ear and catches his wrists as his voice breaks. "We don't have to—"

"But I can,  _ please _ , I can be useful, I—" Crowley panics, despite the warm breath on his neck, despite Aziraphale still holding him close or maybe precisely because of it. It's too gentle and too unexpected, Crowley doesn't know what to do with it or where to file it under. 

Aziraphale almost crushes him in his embrace then, shocking Crowley with the amount of strength hidden under the soft skin. He nudges Crowley towards the bed and eases him onto his back. It makes Crowley think they have reverted to their usual routine, and in a way that would be easier, but no. Aziraphale blows out all the candles and a moment later, the familiar weight of his angel settles down next to him. Warm, strong arms wind around Crowley's frame to pull him closer to the man's chest.

"Angel,  _ Aziraphale _ , " he mutters. "That's not… not what you're paying for."

In the near-complete darkness, Crowley cannot make out Aziraphale's expression but the level of intimacy feels paralysing. His own eyes are prickling and his throat clenches tight.

"Hush, dear." Aziraphale says, with determination Crowley has never heard in his voice before. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression this is most certainly my choice. And right now, it pleases me to hold you."

And as if this wasn't enough, soft, perfectly manicured hands reach up to his now-short hair to brush against his scalp in slow, deliberate movements. Distantly, he remembers how much Aziraphale always liked to touch Crowley's hair, how he wrapped it around his fingers in his passion. Had Lucifer known about this too? He couldn't have.

It's too much and Crowley can't hold off the tears any longer; his barriers crash down and he gives in to all the emotions that have been boiling inside him over the past few days. He curls around Aziraphale reflexively, fisting his hands in the soft, plush waistcoat of the soft, plush man. Tears run down his cheeks in streams, staining Aziraphale's pristine shirt.

"My hair is gone…" He whispers, possibly incoherently. He means it as an apology, because somehow he feels even worse for losing it now. 

"Oh dear, is that what's bothering you? It  _ will _ grow back, you know." Aziraphale comforts him, not aware that no, it won't. Not unless Crowley gets permission for it. "And, in the meanwhile, I should probably remark that you look rather  _ dashing _ ." Aziraphale continues, still carding warm fingers through the strands of his hair and Crowley stifles a whimper. "The thing is… I like you Crowley, just the way you are. You're funny and charming, and good."

"’M not good." 

"Of course not, bloody menace you are." Aziraphale replies and Crowley chuckles through the tears, he must look entirely ridiculous. "You have a value as a person, you don't have to be useful."

Oh God, if that doesn't destroy him completely. 

His throat is so tight he can't manage any words anymore, still clutching to Aziraphale's waistcoat, which is most certainly ruined beyond repair, now. Still curled up in the man's embrace and, if he's crying, well, at least his tears aren’t visible in the darkness. He shouldn't feel so  _ safe  _ in those arms, but the silent thrumming of Aziraphale's heartbeat makes him feel… at peace. When was the last time he simply  _ held  _ someone without it being an  _ illusion _ ? He doesn't remember.

Lou's orders are now only a distant fog of empty words that pale next to the  _ sun _ so radiant and bright it's blinding. Next to Aziraphale. 

Crowley was never good at following orders.

But Aziraphale is not safe here either and there is only one way this can be resolved. The man's hands don't stop the methodic massaging of his scalp, mesmerising in its gentleness. He leans to place a soft kiss on Crowley's forehead. It's going to break Crowley's heart to tell his angel never to see him again.

"Angel," he swallows thickly. "I need to tell you something."

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighs. There is something I have to tell you too." 

Crowley freezes. He should feel scared—for all he knows police could barge in at any moment—but he doesn't. Those arms around him, they don't lie and Crowley  _ knows _ —he can tell the difference. 

Aziraphale must take this silence as a sign to continue, because he says: "That night when we met, it wasn't a coincidence that I was here. I was— I mean, ah, I was tasked with uncovering any illegal activities in the brothel." He says and his voice quivers, his arms tighten around Crowley. "But then... you came and I… I wasn't supposed to—"

The words sting like a dagger struck between Crowley's ribs. He's the fool everyone thought him to be after all. Suddenly, he isn't sure why he clung to the slim possibility that there would be another explanation for so long. But there's no denying the truth coming from Aziraphale's own lips. __

"So it is true." Crowley pulls away without even realising it. "You're an informer, for your brother." There's a rasp in Crowley's voice that cannot hide. He's hurting Aziraphale, but he cannot help it. 

Now Crowley's vision has gotten used to the darkness, he searches Aziraphale's eyes for any sort of explanation, a shred of reason. Right now, any words will do. 

He's not even angry. He's just sad.

Aziraphale looks surprised, but quickly his eyes squint in the most desperate way that already sends a shot of regret down Crowley's chest. " _I was,_ Crowley, but I can't do it anymore. Not after I met you. I was never— I mean… I'm so sorry…"

Aziraphale reaches out for Crowley again but he flinches reflexively and for a moment they both look at each other, equally surprised. 

There's a question coiling in Crowley's mind that hasn't fully formed yet, something that doesn’t quite fit this whole situation. He's afraid to ask it, but he needs to know.

"Why now, angel? What changed?" Crowley says, too dryly, looking down at the bed, at the vast chasm that opened between them. They are both still sitting on the bed, facing each other, but they might as well be on the opposite sides of the planet.

There is a spark of something more in Aziraphale's eyes, awaking that glimmer of hope in his chest anew. He feels powerless and entirely too vulnerable.

Aziraphale cups Crowley's face in his hands and this time he doesn't move away. His heart is thudding loudly in his chest and then all at once it feels as if something has shifted, as if a veil has been lifted off his eyes.

"Crowley, I…" Aziraphale is so close Crowley feels the heat of his body. His crystal blue eyes are open for him and suddenly Crowley knows, he  _ knows,  _ beyond any doubt it's not just him that feels this way; never was.

Crowley can feel his ears burning. Bee was right… but Crowley was right too. It wasn't just pretending, not all of it. 

Except.

They're not two random strangers dancing on the street together anymore. The distant sound of music has died out, never to return again. They're exposed, seeing each other for what they are: forces fighting on the opposite sides, able to destroy each other without ever meaning to.

Crowley can see it now clearer than ever—this feeling he can’t bear to put a name to—is not allowed for people like them. It might be remarkable, but it's not realistic. 

"Angel…" Crowley swallows loudly, the awkward gulp ringing out in the hesitant pause. He covers Aziraphale's hands with his, only to push them away, even though he wants nothing more than to lean into the touch and sink into his angel's embrace. 

Instead, he moves to the edge of the bed and hides his face in his hands and takes a deep breath. Words cling to his tongue like tar, but he needs to tell Aziraphale. Otherwise he'll never forgive himself.

"You must understand that Gabriel has powerful enemies," he starts carefully, "who will stop at nothing to take him down. And one of the more powerful ones is the owner of this brothel. This is why you can't keep coming here. If he has to ruin you to get to your brother, he will. He's already started. A few days ago he ordered me to… expose you."

There's a prolonged silence, during which blood rushes through Crowley's head so loudly it blocks out all the other sounds. He's just hoping Aziraphale will stand up and leave now, quick and neat, like ripping gauze off a congealed wound. He has every right to feel betrayed but instead, a hand lands on Crowley's shoulder. It loses nothing from its initial gentleness and a moment later Aziraphale's whole body is pressed to his back.

"Then run away with me." Aziraphale murmurs into his back, fueling Crowley's battered heart with more misplaced hope. It constricts so much it hurts and not only because he wants nothing more now than to do so, but because he's heard those words before.

Even more—he's done it before, uprooted his whole life for a  _ chance  _ that things might change for the better. They hadn’t, and he had known Lou for a long, long time before that. In contrast, he's only known Aziraphale for a few weeks; he’s only had a few brief encounters to dig for the demons that hide in the deep reaches of every man’s soul.

_ No _ . Crowley's tired heart relents. It couldn't survive another soul-rending heartbreak. Not like this.

"You don't know what it's like," Crowley stalls, completely calm and collected. "You don't want to be poor. The ground is covered with filth, and smells of rot. Whole families sleep in one, cold room if they're lucky, on the streets if they're not. You don't want that life.  _ I _ don't want that life for  _ you _ . Please–"

"I have a bookshop," Aziraphale's arms tighten around him even more. "I can sell it. It would sustain us for a while, before—"

"There is no time!" Crowley rasps, wriggling himself out of the warm embrace and out of everything he’s ever wanted. He stands up abruptly, despite feeling weak. If there was one thing Crowley knew for certain, it was that Aziraphale  _ loved  _ his books. He looks down at his angel sitting on the bed, rumpled but still glowing, the only bright colour in the complete darkness.

_ He's a warrior _ , Crowley realises.  _ Warriors don't give up so easily. _

Crowley turns to light up the candles again, they must have been here at least an hour now. It's time to end this.

"You can't just  _ run away _ from this world. Trust me, I've tried." He pauses, looking back at Aziraphale, who hasn't moved at all. Crowley kneels on the floor in front of him, floorboards creaking as his knees hit the ground. "Look, I'm not worthy of an angel like you. I'm tainted, I've had more cocks in my mouth than..."

Aziraphale raises his hand to reverently brush Crowley's lips, effectively stopping his monologue and then,  _ finally _ , places a feather-light kiss on them. " _ Crowley _ . There is nothing to be ashamed of, it's your source of income, I understand that. I certainly don't think any less of you. Please…"

Crowley looks away. He feels like he’s drowning, like his lungs have been filled with poison again that runs through his body, eating him from the inside. "I can't," he says finally, "and you shouldn't either. Please, don't do anything stupid, just— just leave. It's too late for me, but it's not too late for you. Go back to what you've had before, because down here life is not easy. It's harsh and cruel, and working here might be the best thing that happened to me." The lies roll much easier off his tongue, than he expected.

Aziraphale looks baffled, his cheeks are red. "Why are you saying this?"

"Because I have to believe it!" Crowley’s voice nearly reaches fever pitch and he folds himself into an even smaller lump on the floor. "You’ve seen my bruises, I know you have, though you were too polite to comment on them. I would be dead without the protection I have, because of  _ what I am. _ I've made my deal with the devil and now Lou will never let me go." He kneels by the bed again and takes Aziraphale hand in his, imploring. "Please, angel, leave London if you can. Let at least one of us have a happy ending. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you." Crowley is on the verge of crying again, sore on all of his body and now also on his heart. A complete wreck; worthless in his entirety. 

"Oh,  _ Crowley _ ." Aziraphale reaches to cup his cheeks again, their foreheads leaning against each other. There's that warmth he never wants to give up, but he has to. It's their one last goodbye.

"Promise me. Promise me, angel." Crowley winds his hands around Aziraphale's much softer, much warmer, much more precious hands.

"I promise," Aziraphale says and then, as if an afterthought, adds, "I'm sorry. For everything." Then, there's an embrace that's far tighter and more desperate than Crowley would have wanted. Fluffy blond curls tickle the top of his nose. None of this should have happened but somehow, Crowley regrets nothing.

Eventually Aziraphale stands up and reaches into his pocket. He takes out the usual four pounds, but Crowley closes his hand.

"Let me have this memory, so I know it was real." He says and Aziraphale understands, nods. 

There are tears in his eyes. "I will miss you, dear. Terribly."

And just like that, he leaves. Crowley watches Aziraphale go down the dilapidated staircase, wishing he could give the man a piece of himself to remember him by. There is that tradition of gifting a lock of hair to your lover, but what more could he give, if he's already given out his heart?  _ I'm missing you already, angel.  _

Before Crowley can escape, the toad-like man is standing by his side, slime practically dripping from the edges of his manic grin.

"Well, well, you've must have done something really impressive to leave the man in tears." He says in a croaky voice. "Maybe you could give me some tips to—"

"Shut the fuck up, Hastur!" Crowley growls and the usually not easily intimidated man is stunned into silence as Crowley slams the door behind him and throws himself onto the still-warm sheets. Powerless, but determined. He's made his choice; it doesn't matter what happens to him now. Nothing Lou can come up with could make him regret this, because never before has he felt so sure of anything in his life. 

He only hopes that it is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay, I hope this story still catches you on the weekend:)
> 
> EDIT: I almost forgot, [ I've drawn an nsfw scene from chapter 3 😏 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26935150/chapters/71406846)


	7. Aziraphale's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale must make a choice.
> 
> And help comes from an unexpected side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [ brinjal ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinjal/pseuds/brinjal) for spending your time on beta'ing, as always ❤

Aziraphale stumbles through the streets in a daze. Standing in front of a four storey building at the corner of Parliament and Derby Gate, he wonders how he ended up here of all the places—a good half an hour away from where he started. He doesn't remember leaving Crowley's room or his journey at all (and he should remember passing at least Trafalgar Square if not St. James Park).

The heavy wooden sign creaks with every gust of wind. It's dark, but Aziraphale can just about make out the letters— _ Red Lion _ , the writing reads. It's the molly house Crowley had shown him not that long ago, back when he had trusted Aziraphale. When he had no reason to expect any danger from him.

He feels suddenly sick.

Blood rushes through his veins, drowning all the sounds from the street. There’s not enough air around and he's suffocating. It feels as if a nail has been pressed to his chest and hammered deep between his ribs. A confirmation that this is all he'll ever feel, all he'll ever be. Invisible. Alone. 

His hands tremble and he looks at them in disbelief. Would today be the last time they touched Crowley? His lithe frame and flat, firm stomach, the bright red wisps of his hair?

But it was so much more than just touch. 

Aziraphale will never forget Crowley's haunting gaze, when he held his sharp hips, pressing him back inside and letting him ride out his own pleasure; the stunned disbelief he saw in Crowley's half-lidded, amber eyes, moments before he spilled inside Aziraphale. All this and the beautiful relief that followed will be carved into his heart forever.

He has never felt like this before and he could never stop thinking whether Crowley  _ has _ , whether for Crowley it was just a regular occurence. Sometimes, in his most daring dreams, when buried deep inside the folds of his covers, he imagined that maybe—just maybe—it wasn't. Aziraphale has made his peace with the fact that he will never know for sure, but now that everything has changed, now that he  _ does _ know...

He drops to his knees at the realisation, all the while people pass him by, unaffected and unaware of his own tragedy. Somehow, the fact that the world around him goes on as before, twists a blade that's already sunken deep in his heart. A normal day for the rest of the world, while he's just been deprived of the only place where he could just be... himself.

It was terrifying to ask Crowley to run away with him but Aziraphale was running out of options and the thought of not seeing Crowley ever again terrified him even more. In that split second, he was ready to give everything up, everything he's ever known, everything he's ever had. In fact, he still is. 

_ 'I couldn't bear it, if anything happened to you.' _

That message couldn't have been any clearer. Crowley's face twisted in anguish and worry Aziraphale had never seen before. Poor, selfless creature who, even in the face of danger, wasn't thinking about his own survival but Aziraphale's. 

And what does he have to show in return? 

A bundle of half-truths wrapped up in the web of white lies he has trapped himself in; his cards kept close to his chest until the very bitter end.

Turns out Crowley knew about everything all along—or suspected it at least—and still… After everything, all he wanted was to protect Aziraphale. He wanted to—  _ Oh God.  _

Aziraphale has no one else to blame for this but himself. If he was braver, if he hadn't put off telling Crowley the truth until the very last moment, if he hadn't waited for a miracle that never happened, maybe there would have been enough time to escape together.

And now it's too late.

Maybe Aziraphale really didn't deserve Crowley.

"Sir, are you well?"

Aziraphale blinks and only now seems to notice the young girl standing in front of him, her parents nowhere to be seen. His facial muscles start forming his usual fake smile but he finds that he can't do this anymore—lie to everyone around  _ and _ himself. It was easier, somehow, when there was only him, when he could tell himself the discomfort he felt wasn't  _ that _ bad, that he could endure it for a little while longer. But he can no longer bear to accept the same—or worse—fate for Crowley.

"I'm not," he says truthfully and feels… relieved. He takes a deep breath, which feels like it's the first one in years. Around him, the faces of strangers look at him in disgust, some people shake their heads, probably assuming that he's gone mad.

They’re not entirely wrong.

The little girl smiles in a compassionate, yet sad way. From somewhere behind her there comes a call of a distraught mother looking for her child. The girl looks back and grimaces in apology. "I have to go. Take care of yourself, sir" 

Aziraphale watches her safely reach her mother's arms and stands up, heart still wrecked but somehow a feather lighter, gives him strength to move forward to the one place that might still sustain him. The pub.

Tracy waves to him as he enters, but the gesture dies mid-air as she reads his mood without a mistake.

It's in his every move—the way he drags his heels on the wooden planks, floating towards the bar, his hunched shoulders and his red-rimmed eyes—they all make up the tell-tale signs that he's not even trying to hide anymore. They seep out of him like blood from an open wound.

The pub is much less crowded today, less cheery, as if someone had sucked all the happiness from the air. Maybe it's just him; the harbinger of sorrow. There's a pair of gentlemen in the corner sitting very close, murmuring into each other's ears with their hands out of view. 

Everything Aziraphale is not allowed to have. 

He can't bear to look; his brows knit tight together and he forces his gaze on the bar counter.

He feels foul.

"No Crowley today?" Tracy starts off cautiously. Aziraphale shakes his head without even looking up. "I see." 

"I've ruined it, Tracy."

"Oh, love." She croons, putting a hand on Aziraphale's arm and squeezing gently. It's affectionate in a way no one else has been towards him. No one until Crowley.

Tracy gives him a sad, understanding smile. Thank God she doesn't shower him with empty reassurances; this understanding silence is much easier to survive. He couldn't deal with ' _ everything is going to be okay _ ' now or any of those other empty platitudes he's been telling himself, ever since he can remember.

Tracy pours him a pint of the house ale without another word, placing the friendly glass within reach. Aziraphale doesn't offer any explanation. What is there to say? Nothing. They had nothing, had never named this thing between them, whatever it was.  _ Oh God— _

He hides his head in hands in a pitiful attempt to stop the tears from falling.  _ It was everything.  _ It can't just end up like this, there must be something he could do,  _ anything _ . Anything would be better than this wallow of self-pity he is in now. 

His father was right: there is nothing Aziraphale can do  _ right _ in his life.

Instead of  _ acting,  _ all he can do is to stare at his own, half-empty glass, trying, with little to no success, to stop the tears from splashing into his drink. His muddled thoughts form into the face of the only person in his life that comforted him. 

_ What would you do, mum? _

Through the hazy eyes, he swears he can almost see her smiling, as if the solution was within the reach of a hand.  _ Pray? _ Aziraphale guesses. His mother's faith was always unwavering, a rock anchoring her in life. Aziraphale had always wished for his own faith to be even half as strong but it was not given to him. What he felt for men dug an permanent, impassable wedge between him and God; a wedge that couldn't be removed without cleaving out a part of his soul.

Should he just sell the bookshop and leave everything behind? Would Gabriel even care if he were to do that? His brother was often demanding and sometimes outright mean, but after their father died out at sea, they looked after each other. More or less, anyway. Could Aziraphale even survive without Gabriel?

Is that what Crowley really wants…?

No. Of course not. What he  _ wants _ is Aziraphale to believe in it. But the veil of pretence lifted today and seeing Crowley so surprised at Aziraphale's kindness, insisting on his usefulness, lodged something in his heart.  _ Who taught you that you don't deserve this, Crowley? _

_ 'Lou will never let me go.' _

Aziraphale's hand turns into a fist on the bar top, entirely on its own. His glass shakes in response. Was it Lou? Crowley doesn't deserve this treatment None of the poor souls at the brothel do. If only Aziraphale knew how to make this right. If only he was strong enough to protect Crowley; instead he can't even raise his voice to disagree with Gabriel.

Aziraphale lets out a heavy sigh.  _ Even _ if by some miraculous coincidence he managed to fend off his brother, there would still be Lou on his way. How on Earth could he ever stand against a criminal this powerful?

He takes a considering sip out of his beer.

Out of nowhere, a heavy folder of documents whizzes past his ear and lands on the bar top in front of him. Aziraphale almost chokes on his drink. His gaze wanders slowly from the mysterious package and up a spidery figure with a mean scowl. They stand there with folded arms and a soul-piercing gaze, apparently waiting for some sort of reaction.

Bee sighs as if talking were entirely out of their depth today. "You really care for him, don't you?"

Aziraphale blinks, then nods, slowly. He's not yet sure where this conversation is going. Bee is one of those cryptic figures you could never be sure whose side they were on.

"Don't look at me like that, I  _ know _ who you are—" they intone, dispassionately as only they can. 

Cold sweat is already running down Aziraphale's neck and he opens his mouth to explain, to defend himself—

"Don't," they raise a finger to his face, almost touching his lips. "Don't make me regret coming here." Then they nod towards the hefty envelope still lying on the bartop, untouched.

Aziraphale blinks, but obeys, reaching to open it up; not at all sure what he will find inside—there are bills, some notes, tax returns… [14] Income tax is a relatively new invention, imposed mostly on the very rich—something Gabriel lamented on frequently. Aziraphale was never particularly good with mathematics but he was good enough to have been dealing with family's taxes ever since they were introduced. All of that said, what does it have to do with anything?

He frowns, contemplating but not quite understanding and  _ then _ his gaze floats to the top of the document he's holding bearing the name of…

"Louis Morningstar!" Aziraphale shouts, then covers his mouth with his hand immediately. _Tax evasion,_ he thinks, grinning like an idiot. He can't believe this is something he is going to arrest Lou for. But that's not even the half of it. It can also be used as a leverage against Gabriel, if it came to it. He just needs to play his cards right. 

_ This might actually just work! _

He must be grinning like a madman because Bee smirks. "There's more at his villa, if you can get that far, he's been involved in all sorts of things if you catch my meaning." They cock their head to their side, evaluating him further, but for the first time, Aziraphale has the impression they're liking what they're seeing. "If you get caught, I'll deny everything. Your choice," they add and turn to leave. 

"Wait," Aziraphale grabs their dark coat. At first he thinks he might have made a grave mistake, but Bee doesn't say anything and just waits. "Thank you," he mumbles and  _ there  _ is the almost imperceptible but unmistakable curve on Bee's lips. Finally they nod and turn around, their boots clanking on the wooden floor as they leave.

"Well dear, it looks like you've just been given a second chance." Tracy appears out of nowhere with her strong floral scent and a friendly smile. Aziraphale smiles back.

"Yes, it looks like I have."

* * *

Aziraphale is dressed in his best beige suit. It's a bit official, he knows, but it's a big step for him and he wants to look right for the occasion. Too bad his fingers are already fidgeting with the hem on his waistcoat, but he finds he can't stop them. It's just… so much. 

It's going to be so difficult to leave his bookshop behind.

He only wishes he could tell Crowley, but it's safer this way. 

By his feet there's a single leather bag that fits a few of his favourite books. There's _the_ _Count of Monte Cristo_ (he doesn't know why he was always particularly fond of that one), Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_ and of course Shakespeare's _Sonnets_ (it's his favourite edition due to the faint trace of lip marks next to the final couplet of Sonnet 18) _._

_ So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, _  


_ So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. _

He has just finished shifting his remaining books and is now standing in front of a small, cast iron box. In one hand he's holding a key, but it feels as if he's holding a weapon, about to break into places he is not meant to be.  _ I'm sorry, mum.  _ He says to himself, though something tells him she'd understand, almost as if she left him the book for this precise occasion.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and opens up the box. Inside, wrapped in a cloth, rests his most precious book—the  _ Sybillenbuch _ . With very precise movements, Aziraphale removes it out of its resting place. His fingers darting fondly over the pages before nestling it in his bag. He hopes this will be enough for him to survive. 

This time, when the doorbell above the main doors rings, Aziraphale is settled in his favourite armchair with a glass of wine. Ready.

His brother storms in without regard for anything on his way, as always. "Hello, Aziraphale. You said you had some news for me?" Gabriel roars from the doors, skipping the pleasantries and rubbing his hands in anticipation. He's in for a surprise of the year.

"Yes," Aziraphale says slowly, rubbing his chin. Gabriel sits on the armrest of his couch, not even settling in properly. Yet another small insult. That's okay, it won’t be much longer now.

"You haven't found a potential  _ Miss Fell _ , have you? Because that would be—"

"I will be selling the bookshop. And leaving the country." Aziraphale cuts in. His voice is calm; he is certain it is the right decision.

Gabriel blinks several times. "Well, that's… certainly big news, indeed, but maybe something you should have discussed with me first?" Gabriel's brows knit together and he throws his arms up in irritation.

Aziraphale doesn't take the bait. He looks into his glass of wine and smiles to himself. Making Gabriel wait is a different kind of pleasure. "I came across a sizable amount of evidence against a notorious brothel keeper. Someone who wants you gone from the office and who found a way to tarnish your reputation."

"Oh?" Gabriel raises his brow, his face contorting, his features not able to decide if he should be happy about it or not. Baffled at the course of the conversation. "That's… wonderful news. I see you've been busy recently indeed. Tell me all about it."

"It's not that simple. The man is well connected and has been bribing the police for quite some time now. Even his brothel appears to be legal. That's how I came across it in the first place."

His brother is massaging his temples. "Hold on, how does it have to do anything with you leaving the country?"

Aziraphale pauses for a moment, gathering up the final scraps of courage he took from those worn pages. "Gabriel, what if I told you, I was one of those...  _ things _ that you so deeply despise?"

"What do you mean?" Gabriel's face goes completely blank and Aziraphale feels his stomach sinking, his nails digging deeper into the armchair as if this could keep him from falling. He has to remind himself firmly he has nothing to fear anymore.

"What if I was… involved with a man?" He says. There. It's in the open now, words that cannot be taken back.

Gabriel doesn't say anything, but the smile has been completely wiped off his face, now. He bounces up and his jaw drops so low, it practically needs picking up off the floor.

"What?"

"You heard what I said."

"I don't know what to say, Aziraphale. Maybe you should think about it; these things can be forgiven. I can find a discreet priest for you, no one ever has to know."

He sighs. That was actually a  _ much  _ better reaction than he was expecting. Gabriel is shocked alright, but not... disgusted. Aziraphale was putting up this shield, this armour for years and years and now, after all this time, his fear turns out to have been scarier than the reality he's actually facing. 

"I  _ have  _ been thinking about it for quite some time now. In fact, you have no idea for how long. I don't want to unhappily marry and live up to the expectations of others. Instead I want to  _ live. _ "

He takes out the envelope, the one he received from Bee. Tightly packed with documents. Gabriel reaches out for it and Aziraphale takes it out from his grasp.

"I want you to know that, as much as you've made sure to make me feel… inadequate, I don't harbor any hostile feelings towards you."

"That's not—"

"You should also know," Aziraphale continues firmly, "I've made copies of these, as insurance. You can keep the bookshop; it should last you long enough before you find a suitable partner to get married or get a raise, either or. There is an address at the top of that envelope. I should be gone before you come back. Questions?"

Gabriel is so stunned, he only shakes his head.

"Good." Aziraphale finally passes the envelope over.

It's done. 

There's only one more little push and it will be over. Everything will be fine. 

"Aziraphale?" 

Aziraphale looks up at his brother, now hanging back in the door frame, as if unsure, as if 

The man he feared beyond anything or anyone else, up to this point, now looking just… old and worn out. "I will be praying for you."

He knows his brother will never understand but at least he doesn't stop Aziraphale and, in his own way… he might even care for him, and that's more than he could have ever hoped for.

Aziraphale smiles and nods. 

This one reaches his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [14] Income tax was the first tax in British history to be levied directly on people's earnings. It was introduced in 1799 by the Prime Minister as a temporary measure to cover up the cost of the Napoleonic Wars. What's more interesting is that it was reintroduced in 1842 and levied only on the very rich.  
> 
> 
> Notes: I just want to say I'm absolutely overwhelmed by the amount of love and kind words that are directed at me. I never expected this story would get so much attention, so just— thank you ❤ For reading me. It means a lot 🥺
> 
> (I don't know if I will be able to keep up with weekly updates or if they'll end up being bi-weekly, but I'm writing this continuously and will be posting as quickly as I can:) Thank you everyone for your patience.)


	8. The End Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which... Aziraphale's plan gets implemented...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I must remind you of the happy ending tag (not open ended and not ambiguous. Happy. Trust me.)
> 
> In fact, full disclosure, this chapter ends with a nasty cliffhanger that only gets resolved in the next chapter, so you might want to wait for that to drop first. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: emotional manipulation, gaslighting, mentions of toxic past relationship, mentions of past cheating. (Also please mind the existing tags.)
> 
> Thank you so much, [ brinjal ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinjal/pseuds/brinjal) for your hard beta work as always! And also to [ hanap ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap) and [ Naromoreau ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau) for literally hand holding me through this chapter 💞

Lou storms into Crowley's room without a warning, leaving him no time to react. He immediately grabs Crowley by the wrist and tugs, expecting him to comply. In all Crowley's time here Lou had never ever come to visit him in the brothel. Something was quite clearly _wrong_.

"I have no time to explain, but we need to go!"

"What? Why?" Crowley digs his heels in unconsciously; he doesn't follow Lou without asking questions anymore. "What happened?"

Lou gives him an exasperated look; there's nothing of that confidence he extended over Crowley only days ago. Instead there is something else, something surprisingly close to… fear.

The man purses his lips but cracks almost as quickly. "They came for me!" He exclaims, raising his trembling hands to Crowley's face, imploring, but not quite touching. Crowley takes a step back, bewildered. But Lou doesn't notice, already too far gone in his own thoughts as he starts pacing the room.

"They came for me to the villa… I can't believe I even escaped. How could they know about me? How!?" He laments, taking a step toward Crowley again, backing him onto a wall with chipped plaster. Crowley feels chills start to crawl up his back. "But it's okay. It's fine," Lou adds quickly, frantically smoothing creases on Crowley's shirt, while Crowley is pushing his spine further into the cold plane behind him. "We can still outrun them, just you and I, together. Just like the old times, just as I promised."

They've not been so close since their split so many years ago. Now, Crowley feels Lou's breath on his face and the heat of his body, not quite touching his yet. Lou's tired face is still the same one he used to _love._ It would be so easy to lean into the touch, to welcome him back to his life, to let Lou _claim_ him back. He's tired now too, old, what's more left for him in this life? 

He swallows, gaze briefly falling on Lou's lips, the memory of candied cherries he tasted so long ago still sweet on his tongue and his bruised heart constricts at the memory. His body is already thrumming with need and Crowley feels that magnetic pull, almost impossible to resist. He desperately wants to believe Lou's every word. 

But.

What happened between them cannot be erased, the past cannot be changed. It burns through him like a hot wire every time Crowley thinks about it, every time the images of Lou with _that_ woman pass before his eyes, uninvited. Every time he relieves that quarrel from years before. 

"No, you… you have a child with Mrs Young," Crowley says finally, regretful.

"Really? That again?" Lou's snarling face is staring down at Crowley. "I told you: I did this for _us_ ! Money was running out, I needed to make my way to the top and _fast_! That was the most sure way. The only way. What else did you want me to do?"

"The least you could have done was to tell me about it, so I wouldn't have to find out from her _maid_! Don't you think you at least owed me the truth!?" Crowley barks back, flooded with old emotions. The scabs have fallen off old wounds and they are bleeding again with a new intensity.

"I knew you wouldn't have liked the idea."

"Oh, because that makes it _so_ _much_ better!" Crowley shouts at Lou, pushing him back, his anger now in full swing.

"Crowley, if you had stayed you wouldn't have to… do what you're doing now." Lou's face distorts in disgust. "You wouldn't have to be a rent-boy, wear dresses for men who don't give a rat's ass about you. But I do, even though it was _you_ who walked away from me. What did you think was going to happen to you? And yet I gave you a place _here_ , privileges you wouldn't have anywhere else. I've made you into _something_ Crowley, you'd be nothing without me."

Crowley follows Lou's arguments, but it feels like trudging through the mud, his thoughts running in circles, but the worst part is that his words _make sense._ They always have. And now, more than ever, Crowley desperately wants to believe in them. One stupid night Crowley could have even forgiven… but _never_ telling him the truth? How much is there that Crowley doesn't _know_ ? He will _always_ keep Crowley in the dark, and not only about this. This is just the tip of the iceberg.

"Despite the _thing_ you are now, I am still here, for old time’s sake," Lou whispers sweetly. "Come with me," the man reaches for Crowley's wrist again and it's suddenly too much, that hot wire scalding him from the inside too palpable. He wriggles out of Lou's grasp and storms past him.

"Don't you see? It will _never_ be like the old times between us! Not after what happened! Do you even remember your son's name? How old is he now? Seven? Ten? You don't even care about _him_! I am not going anywhere with you." Crowley splutters his slew of regrets in one breath.

Lou somehow reins his rage in at Crowley's blatant refusal, but doesn't let Crowley out of his sight. "Eleven. Adam is eleven." The man says and Crowley senses the anger pulsing beneath his skin—Lou was always short tempered and prone to outbursts that came in the least expected moments. "What would you want me to do about it now? Do you want me to pay for my sins? Do you want revenge? Is that what you want? Or maybe it was _you_ who tipped me off to the police, hm?" Lou seethes through his teeth, catching Crowley's chin and holding it in place, fingers digging into his flesh. It makes the icy fear spread through his veins. Crowley might have never seen him this angry.

"I don't— don't know what you're talking about."

"Have you done as I told you about the chief of police's brother?"

"I haven't seen him again." Crowley lies quickly—too quickly—and he feels cold sweat running down his neck. "He must have sensed something was wrong, he never showed up again."

Lou's features grow even darker and more demonic. "Don't lie to me!"

"I would never, I swear!" Crowley closes his eyes, trying to move away from Lou as much as possible, his eyes prickling. He feels his heart slamming about his ribcage, pushing up his throat in an attempt to escape. But there's nowhere to escape to. What does he have to do to make Lou believe him…?

Crowley feels Lou's breath on his face, sees the man evaluating him like a predator circling its prey. Eventually, Lou takes a sharp inhale, but whatever he reads in Crowley's reaction must have been satisfactory, because he smiles and lets go of his frame. "No, of course you wouldn't." The sudden tap on Crowley's cheek is almost gentle. "Don't worry, everything can be fixed, I will take care of you, my pet, as I always have, but first... " Something wild and vile flickers in his eyes. "First I will burn that bookshop to the ground! They will know not to get on the wrong side of me!"

"No..." Crowley whimpers, before he can stop himself. His voice coming out high pitched and trembling, his body shaking, and Lou doesn’t miss a bit of it. He raises his piercing gaze to pin Crowley down and reads him like a book. He sees Crowley's love for another man and Crowley realises it's too late. "Please don't! I'll do anything you want, I'll leave with you now, just— just let him be." Crowley falls to his knees and embraces Lou's calves in a pitiful attempt to sway his decision, but all he feels is the man's body tensing.

Lou's heavy hand falls on him unexpectedly, slapping him across the face. In all their times together and in all Lou's maliciousness he's never done anything like this before. The burst of pain on Crowley's cheek is staggering and he stumbles back, pressing a hand to his cheek, where quite likely a blood-red mark is already blooming. 

Lou looks as horrified as Crowley feels. 

He kneels in front of him and extends his hands. "Honey, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't touch me!" Crowley shouts, crawling away on the creaking floorboards and that changes everything—the rejection hitting Lou like a bullet.

Lou closes the distance between them and grabs Crowley by the collar. "You'll do what I tell you either way! I'll deal first with the sly rat that turned your head, and then I'll come back for you." He releases Crowley from his grip and backs out from the room.

Cold sweat covers Crowley's spine as he realises what that means. "No! Wait!"

"Hastur!" Lou turns towards the man who now appears out of nowhere. How long has he been standing there? "Guard the doors until I come back. Don't let anyone in, and most certainly, don't let anyone _out_."

"Will do, chief." Hastur nods and the doors close before Crowley can do anything, the key clicking in its lock.

Crowley throws himself onto the wooden plane all the same. He bangs his fists in a futile attempt to free himself, screaming at the top of his lungs. "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Shut up in there! I can't hear my own thoughts." Hastur responds. 

Okay, good, maybe that's something Crowley can work with if he can appeal to the man's basic instinct.

"Hastur, for God's sake! Let me out, the police will come for you too! They're probably on their way right now!"

There is a moment of silence, which may be a sign that Hastur is considering his words.

"Nah, they won't. Lou has the situation in hand; he always does. And if you listened to the warning, you'd be alright too."

Crowley's mind goes completely blank as he tries to decipher the words that inadvertently slipped out. "Warning? What warning?" Silence. "Hastur! What warning!?" And then he knows. The _attack_ , it was all planned. _This_ is how Lou knew about Aziraphale—from bloody Hastur, not from Bee. "You son of a— in the alley! That was you! That's why you've been there to save me, it wasn't a coincidence!"

"Of course it wasn't. You know, for someone so smart, you really are a thick bastard."

Crowley turns his back to the doors and he collapses to the floor, his head in his arms. He had let himself be played so easily. Lou had planned it all to make him obedient, and it worked. He must have felt Crowley slipping through his fingers and hadn’t wanted to risk the outcome. And just to think that, for a brief moment, Crowley had almost believed that Lou truly _cared_ for him. He sighs. 

Aziraphale is in danger and that's all that matters now. Crowley has to warn him. 

He jumps towards the window and opens it up, looking for an escape route, but he's on the fourth floor, the ledge outside is narrow and slippery, and the cast iron downpipes are crooked and detached in a few places. But what option does he have? He takes his black bed sheets and ties them together to the post of his bed, then he weighs it down with his storage chest for good measure and tugs on it to check his questionable construction.

"’Ey, what's happening in there? What are you doing?" Hastur's curiosity piques.

"Ending with my life, quite possibly."

"What? Crowley?" There is no response. "Crowley?" 

From his hiding spot behind the doors Crowley observes as Hastur enters the room and moves towards the window. Crowley smacks him in the head with the thickest book he has and the man falls unconscious.

"You know Hastur. For someone so stupid, you really are… even more stupid than I realised." He turns towards the doors. 

"Bee! I need your help!"

* * *

They both leave the ringer house immediately, running like the wind toward the bookshop. And if Crowley had been worried if he'd be able to find the right one, the massive smoke cloud hovering over the city removed any doubts he might have had.

Crowley picks his already murderous pace, almost running his lungs out. Deadly smoke and flames engulfing the building whole is all he can see. It flows out from the windows and consumes everything on its way, turning it into ash.

All of his hope.

There's quite a few people around, trying in vain to put out the fire but, whatever their attempts, the bookshop and everything within is already gone.

"Aziraphale!" He screams and runs headfirst toward the main entrance, toward the doors crooked, deformed on its hinges but before he reaches them, a firm grasp stops him in his steps.

"Oh no you don't!" Bee holds him tight, keeping him from falling apart. When did they get so strong? He desperately tries to wiggle out of their grasp, but it's no use.

"Aziraphale! Angel!" Crowley screams into the sky until his throat hurts, fighting the steely grip as tears trickle down his face. Exhausted, he drops to his knees, digging his hands into the cobblestones and choking on his tears. Bee holds him all the way through it. "You stupid _angel,_ you never listened to me." He whispers, choking on his own tears.

It's too late. He arrived too late. How could the building have burnt down so quickly? The fire brigade's [15] firemen are spraying the bookshop, blue, double-breasted tunics and golden helmets [16] flicking in front of his eyes. They're doing what they can to stop it from spreading to other buildings, but it's too late for the bookshop. Too late for his angel.

A moment later, something moves within the ruined building and there it is again—hope against hope stirring within Crowley's chest. The splintering doors open and a tall man in pastel purple coat, now stained with ash, stumbles out, coughing profusely. Crowley has never seen the man before, but at the same time he looks somehow familiar.

"It's Aziraphale's brother," Bee mutters to him. 

A group of policemen walks towards him and he shakes his head with sorrow. Crowley knows what it means and feels the hope crushing down in his chest. Gabriel stands there, unmoving, then raises his eyes, locking his gaze with Crowley's own, red-rimmed and puffed one. 

Gabriel looks at him with a knowing look, as if he recognised Crowley, as if he knew exactly who Crowley is, even though they had never met in their lives. He feels an inexplicable sense of connection through their shared pain and, if not an approval of their actions, at least an understanding. 

Abruptly, Gabriel breaks eye contact, lowering his head to the ground. He walks away with the small police team and without a word.

"They captured Lou," Bee says, still holding Crowley tight. "I heard them saying—"

"What does it matter now?" Crowley cuts in, his voice shaking. "Aziraphale is gone…"

Bee falls silent and doesn't speak again until they are back at the ringer house, where Crowley curls under the covers on his bed. They stay with him for the night, falling asleep on the chair by the now blown out candles.

But Crowley doesn't sleep, he's too afraid to close his eyes, too afraid to dream about the softness of blond curls under his fingers, of sad blue eyes that looked at him as if he was worth something.

It all now feels distant and dream-like, almost as if it has never happened.

Tick-tock.

The same clock that rationed his time with Aziraphale now measures his loneliness, striking the hour of his despair. 

He's back in his bare room in the ringer house with this tainted bed where he's slowly withering away. 

Condemned to this empty existence for the rest of his life. 

Echoing with his every breath that Aziraphale is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry 😭 (but it's not the end and resolution is nigh!)
> 
> [15] Metropolitan Fire Brigade as funded at public expense by the government was funded in 1865 surpassing London Fire Engine Establishment, which was a municipal, but still private enterprise
> 
> [16] In 1866 chief fire officer Captain Sir Eyre Massey Shaw introduced a new uniform consisting of a blue double-breasted serge tunic and blue woollen trousers. The more recognisable maroon suit was only introduced in 1999.
> 
> /// I forgot to leave recs the few last times, but let me recommend this amazing ongoing wip by [ Naromoreau ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau)! [ Enraptured ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28260351/chapters/69252963). It's also a Mystery AU story featuring monk Aziraphale and succubus Crowley, so… sex worker in a way!? It's angsty and as well written as you can expect! Also I've had the pleasure of drawing art for the latest chapter:) (also available [ here). ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26935150/chapters/72797070)

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream at me on tumblr, I'm [ @teslatherat ](https://teslatherat.tumblr.com/)


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